ALLAN  UPDEGIU 


THEY     WERE    HOLDING     HANDS     ON     A     JULY     HILLSIDE     IN    THE 
MORNING     SUNLIGHT 


Second  Toutb 

Being,  in  the  Main,  some 
Account  of  the  Middle 
Comedy  in  the  Life  of 
a  New  York  Bachelor 


A  Novel 

by 
ALLAN    UPDEGRAFF 


SECOND  YOUTH 


Copyright,  1917,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
Published  April,  1917 

0-R 


TO 

F.  M.  U. 

for   being 


2138522 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  A  SILK  SALESMAN,  UNDETERRED  BY  SAD  EXPERIENCE, 

NOTES  ANOTHER  CUSTOMER  IN  PARTICULAR     .    .  1 

II.  MR.  FRANCIS  Is  NOTED  IN  PARTICULAR  BY  His  PARTICU- 

LAR CUSTOMER 15 

III.  WITH  SOME  ASSISTANCE,  MR.  FRANCIS  DISCOVERS  AN 

ADJECTIVE 36 

IV.  RECONSTRUCTION,  PROMOTION — AND  A  NEW  ROMANCE    .      49 

V.  A  TYPICAL  DAY  AT  MCDAVITT'S — SOMEWHAT  DISORDERED 

BY  THE  INTRUSION  OF  AN  IDEAL 65 

VI.  HE  CONTINUES  TO  RISE,  ESPECIALLY  IN  GENTILITY,  AND 

IN  MATTERS  SARTORIAL 81 

VII.  DEEP  PROBLEMS,  A  NEW  CANE,  AND  A   CATASTROPHIC 

ATTEMPT  TO  SECURE  INFORMATION 99 

VIII.  SOME  INTERESTING,  TO  MR.  FRANCIS,  AT  LEAST,  EXPERI- 

MENTS IN  FRIENDSHIP — AND  IN  A  FOURTH  VARIETY  OF 
ROMANCE 110 

IX.  HE  MEETS  Two  UNACCOUNTABLE  GENTLEMEN,  ONE  OF 

WHOM  HE  DECIDES  HE  HAS  SEEN  BEFORE  ....    139 

X.  MRS.  BENSON  BEGINS  TO  REAP  WHERE  ANOTHER  HAS 

SOWN 151 

XI.  MR.  FRANCIS  EXPERIENCES  SOME  UPS  AND  DOWNS  AS  A 

FIANCE — INCLUDING  A  SIEGE 166 

XII.  HE  IMBIBES  IDEALISM  FROM  A  MANHATTAN  MORNING, 

AND  PRAGMATISM  FROM  SOME  OTHER  THINGS     .    .    .    178 

XIII.  DENATURED,  OR  COME-BACK-LESS,  LOVE  Is  CALLED  TO 

His  ATTENTION 199 


Contents 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XIV.  VARIOUS  IMPORTANT  MATTERS  DEMAND  His  ATTENTION, 

BUT  HE  FINDS  HE  HAS  TAPPED  A  NEW  SOURCE  OF 
STRENGTH,  AND  MEETS  THEM  WITHOUT  FLINCHING — 
MUCH 218 

XV.  HE  FACES  A  HARVEST-DAT  IN  WHICH  THE  WORKERS 

ARE  So  FAR  FROM  FEW  THAT  HE  Is  ALMOST  GAR- 
NERED IN 252 

XVI.  HE  MEETS  A  LADY  WITH  AN  EYE,  A  GENTLEMAN  IN  KNEE- 

PANTIES,  AND  A  THIRD  PERSON,  WITH  ALL  OP  WHOM 

HE  HOLDS  HIGH  CONVERSE 269 

XVII.  IT  THUNDERS,  AND  HE  REALIZES  THAT  ALL  Is  OVER 

BETWEEN  THEM.  FIRM  IN  THIS  BELIEF,  HE  INTER- 
RUPTS AN  INTELLECTUAL  CONVERSATION  FOR  THE  SAKE 

OF  ONE  LAST  WALK  WITH  His  LADY 305 

XVHI.  HE  MAKES  A  PENULTIMATE  ENTRY,  AND  A  VARIANT  HAND- 
WRITING APPEARS  IN  THE  LAST  LINES  IN  THE  BOOK.    326 


"Pamela;  or  Virtue  Rewarded.  In  a  Series  of  Letters 
from  a  Beautiful  Young  Damsel.  .  .  .  Published  in  order 
to  cultivate  the  principles  of  Virtue  and  Religion  in  the 
minds  of  the  youth  of  both  sexes." — SAMUEL  RICHARD- 
SON (1741). 


SECOND  TOUTH 


A    SILK    SALESMAN,    UNDETERRED     BY     SAD     EXPERIENCE, 
NOTES  ANOTHER  CUSTOMER  IN  PARTICULAR 

MR.  FRANCIS  was  accustomed  to  wash  out  his  own 
socks,  handkerchiefs,  and  underwear  in  the  hand- 
basin  that  stood  in  one  corner  of  his  room.  He  convinced 
himself  that  he  did  this  because  he  objected  to  having 
his  intimate  clothing  so  indelicately  mixed  with  the  inti- 
mate clothing  of  strangers  in  a  public  laundry,  but  the 
real  reason  may  have  been  thirty  cents  a  week  saved. 
In  many  of  his  mental  processes  he  was  a  naive,  almost 
a  child-like,  man. 

And  therefore  he  was  not  less  important  in  a  world 
tending  to  get  back,  thanks  to  certain  puerilities  over- 
seas, to  a  more  naiive  and  child-like  basis.  Even  though 
he  had  no  interest  in  the  world  overseas,  nor  in  any  world 
beyond  a  certain  circumscribed  part  of  New  York  City, 
it  may  well  have  been  a  matter  of  larger  interest  than  it 
would  have  been  in  a  more  civilized  world-atmosphere 
that  on  the  evening  of  Monday,  March  13th,  he  wrote  in 
his  diary: 


Second    Youth 


Noted  another  customer  in  particular  to-day.  Bought 
five  yards  of  that  new  Wild  Geranium.  She  said  it  seemed 
strange  that  worms  could  make  anything  as  beautiful  as 
the  silk. 

I  said,  worms  and  mulberry-leaves;  probably  it  took 
about  five  thousand  worms  and  the  leaves  from  half  a 
dozen  good-sized  mulberry-trees  to  make  the  five  yards 
of  silk  she  bought. 

She  said  five  thousand  worms  might  be  interesting,  but 
she  didn't  care  to  think  of  worms  in  connection  with  any- 
thing she  wore.  She  said  she  never  liked  to  think  too 
deep  into  things,  because  they  were  invariably  unpleasant 
if  one  did. 

I  said  silk  was  always  just  silk  to  me,  and  beautiful, 
and  the  thought  of  the  ugly  little  worms  it  came  from  did 
not  make  me  think  it  any  less  beautiful,  but  only  more 
remarkable.  She  said  I  was  an  Idealist. 

She  struck  me  as  very  refined.  Her  height  was  tall, 
about  my  own.  Her  hair  dark  golden,  natural,  I'm  sure, 
and  her  face  frank,  pleasant,  with  blue  eyes.  Doubtless 
she  had  been  shopping  a  great  deal.  She  looked  tired  out. 

Her  name,  which  she  gave  me  for  the  delivery  check, 
was  Mrs.  Adelaide  Winton  Twombly,  2067  West  End 
Avenue.  I  can  understand  how  perfectly  she  fits  in  that 
refined  vicinity.  It  is  one  of  the  advantages  of  my  posi- 
tion that  I  am  enabled  to  associate,  even  on  a  purely 
business  basis,  with  persons  of  her  refinement. 

She  said  when  she  returned  to  the  store  for  more  silk, 
of  which  she  bought  quite  a  little,  she  hoped  I  would  be  at 
liberty  to  wait  on  her.  I  said  I  would  make  it  my  business 
to  be  at  liberty,  and  I  shall.  It  struck  me  as  strange  that 
she  should  give  her  own  first  names,  Adelaide  Winton, 
instead  of  her  husband's  full  name,  but  women  are  chang- 


Second    Youth 


ing  a  great  deal  these  days,  I  find.     She  wore  a  wedding- 
ring.     She  gave  me  a  feeling  of  great  respect. 

How  sweetly  sounds  the  voice  of  a  good  woman! 
It  is  so  seldom  heard  that,  when  it  speaks, 
It  ravishes  all  senses. 

— MASSINGER,  The  Old  Law,  IV,  2. 

Mr.  Francis's  reason  for  adding  that  selection  from  an 
ancient  book  called  Precious  Gems  was  in  no  way  contro- 
versial; it  was  summed  up  in  a  feeling  that  a  bit  of  poetry 
seemed,  somehow,  appropriate  after  an  entry  of  that  sort. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  poetry  in  his  personal  journal, 
selections  copied  from  the  various  public-library  volumes 
that  had  helped  to  brighten  his  prosaic  life  as  a  silk 
salesman  in  McDavitt's  Department  Store. 

No  one  had  ever  taken  the  trouble  to  suspect  that,  be- 
hind the  dignified,  neat,  black-and-white  exterior  of  Mr. 
Francis  there  was  a  soul  filled  with  poetry,  purity,  and 
high  romance. 

He  might  have  been  thirty-five  years  old,  by  the  thin- 
ness of  the  brown  hair  above  his  brow  and  the  faint  sug- 
gestion of  frost  at  his  temples.  His  face,  tending  to 
delicacy  of  feature  in  the  forehead  and  nose  and  made  a 
little  wistful  by  the  worry-lines  about  his  mouth,  was 
pallid  from  years  of  working  in  artificial  light.  Old- 
fashioned  sideburns,  extending  down  level  with  the  lobes 
of  his  ears,  made  him  look  more  melancholy  than  he  was. 
In  repose  the  large  hazel-colored  eyes  behind  his  gold- 
rimmed  glasses  were  likely  to  have  the  appearance  of 
looking  at  nothing;  but  he  was  too  anxious  to  keep  his 
stock  in  order,  and  to  give  his  most  earnest  attention  to 
the  desires  of  a  possible  customer,  to  be  much  in  repose 
during  working-hours.  He  harmonized  with  the  high- 


Second    Youth 


class  old  establishment  that  employed  him,  and  treated 
him  well — for  a  silk  salesman.  The  consideration  shown 
him  he  repaid  by  immaculateness  in  dress,  scrupulousness 
in  his  reports,  and  the  air  of  an  English  butler  in  dealing 
with  customers. 

His  inner  self  was  revealed  in  two  of  his  daily  activities : 
in  the  handling  of  the  silks  that  had  been  his  familiars  from 
boyhood,  and  in  the  keeping  of  a  large  red-morocco  diary 
that  he  carried  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  black  cutaway 
coat. 

The  silks — how  he  caressed  their  shimmering  textures 
and  colors,  how  he  made  them  display  all  their  subtle 
beauties  and  allurements!  It  was  quite  without  guile 
on  his  part;  the  idea  of  urging  or  inveigling  a  customer 
into  buying  would  have  filled  him  with  horror.  He  dis- 
played his  wares  to  their  best  advantage  simply  because 
he  loved  them.  Therefore  he  did  it  so  well  that  many  a 
fine  lady,  after  watching  his  long,  white,  well-kept  hands 
play  among  the  folds,  bought  stuffs  that  she  had  no  pos- 
sible use  for.  An  indirect  result  of  his  proficiency  was 
that  it  had  kept  him  a  simple  salesman  long  after  his 
training  and  service  entitled  him  to  better  things.  Still, 
McDavitt's  is  conscientious,  and  he  contented  himself 
with  the  expectation  that  he  would  some  day  go  into  the 
buyer's  office  with  a  larger  salary  to  make  up  for  hopes 
deferred. 

But  Mr.  Francis's  chief  self-revelation  was  reserved  for 
his  diary.  Every  evening  he  made  an  entry.  During  the 
several  hours  every  day  when  the  choiceness,  and  there- 
fore sparseness,  of  McDavitt's  clientele  left  him  little  to 
do,  he  often  took  out  the  book,  opened  it  among  the 
shining  silks  on  the  mahogany  counter,  and  made  a  note 
or  two.  It  was  a  large  book  for  a  diary,  and  bond-paper 


Second    Youth 


leaves  gave  it  much  writing-space  for  its  bulk.  The 
words  "  Personal  Journal "  were  printed  in  gold  across  the 
front  cover,  and  there  was  a  bunch  of  gold  forget-me-nots, 
tied  with  a  gold  true-lovers'  knot,  in  the  upper  left-hand 
corner.  Beneath  the  forget-me-nots,  in  small,  precise 
capitals,  Mr.  Francis  had  printed  his  name — ROLAND 

FARWELL  FRANCIS. 

To  one  prying  into  the  secrets  of  Mr.  Francis's  life 
through  the  pages  of  this  diary  the  number  of  entries  like 
the  one  of  March  13th,  quoted  above,  might  have  seemed 
somewhat  appalling. 

The  pages  were  full  of  hints  of  romance,  of  hints  of  an 
almost  indefinite  number  of  romances.  The  vague  be- 
ginnings were  recorded  in  statements  such  as  "I  noted 
another  customer  in  particular  to-day."  Ten  to  one  the 
note  that  followed  finished  the  matter,  but  often  there 
were  conjectures  about  "her,"  bits  of  personal  description, 
faint  suggestions  of  aspiration  and  longing.  These  were 
likely  to  be  followed  by  remarks  on  his  own  unworthiness, 
bitter  self -analysis  leading  up  to  relinquishment,  final 
bursts  of  despondency  during  which  he  loaded  pages  with 
the  most  mortuary  poetry  he  could  find.  But  he  was  an 
invincible  idealist;  soon  the  process  started  all  over  again. 
From  the  time  when  he  had  begun,  aged  seventeen  years, 
as  a  stock-clerk  in  McDavitt's  silk  department,  he  must 
have  approximated  a  round  hundred  of  these  catalectic 
romances. 

His  work,  his  station  in  life,  his  poetic  temperament, 
made  the  result  inevitable.  His  silks  attracted  beauty, 
he  adored  beauty,  and  beauty  considered  him  in  much  the 
same  class  with  the  glass-and-ebony  display  fixtures. 
Like  a  later  Tantalus,  he  watched  the  waters  of  life  flow 
by  so  close  that  they  fairly  enveloped  him,  and  yet  he  was 


Second    Youth 


powerless  to  lift  one  drop  for  the  quenching  of  his  thirst. 
A  cheaper  man  might  have  solaced  himself  with  cheaper 
beauty;  a  more  practical  man  might  have  searched  out 
beauty  as  true  in  more  accessible  places;  a  luckier  man 
might  have  stumbled  on  it  nearer  home.  Mr.  Francis, 
lacking  cheapness  and  practicality  and  luck,  had  remained 
a  virtuous  bachelor. 

On  Friday,  March  17th,  Mr.  Francis  wrote  in  the  book: 


I  have  looked  up  the  meaning  of  the  word  Idealist  at 
some  length.  It  seems  to  be  a  person  who  emphasizes 
the  good  side.  He  sees  the  daily  facts  of  life,  sordid  and 
common  though  they  may  be,  and  yet  thinks  that  a  great 
deal  of  beauty  and  good  may  come  out  of  them  in  the 
final  analysis.  This  is  somewhat  like  the  silkworms  and 
the  silk.  I  saw  some  silkworms  once  imported  with  an 
importation  of  Chinese  mandarin  from  China.  They  were 
dead,  but  they  were  not  at  all  disgusting.  It  gave  me  a 
feeling  of  great  respect  for  them  to  know  that  out  of  the 
two  little  glands  in  their  mouths  came  the  threads  of  silk 
that  are  finally  spun  into  the  most  beautiful  of  cloths. 

Flax  has  a  blue  flower,  and  a  field  of  cotton  all  white  in 
the  sun  must  be  a  wondrous  sight.  But  the  worm  gets 
ahead  of  them  both. 

She  has  not  been  in  again.  Should  I  presume  to  thank 
her,  if  she  returns,  for  making  me  look  up  the  word  Idealist 
and  thinking  about  things  I  would  not  otherwise  have 
thought  about?  I  note  that  Idealist  is  a  term  much 
used  in  philosophy,  and  I  shall  draw  some  books  on  that 
subject  from  the  public  library.  I  have,  perhaps,  neglected 
philosophy. 

But  I  dare  say  she  will  not  be  in  again,  or  if  she  is  will 


Second    Youth 


not  remember  our  previous  conversation,  and  it  will  not 
be  my  place  to  remind  her.  It  is  true  that  I  am  little 
more  than  a  servant.  However,  a  man's  a  man  for  all 
that — Robert  Burns.  In  my  years  of  serving  at  a  silk- 
counter  I  have  always  remembered  something  a  former 
salesman  once  said  to  me. 

He  said,  if  you  don't  get  treated  with  respect,  make  them 
feel  they  are  the  ones  that  aren't  respectable.  I  have, 
perhaps,  not  been  so  pressing  in  my  demands  for  respect 
as  Williamson,  who  sometimes  insulted  his  customers,  but 
I  think  there  is  wisdom  in  his  advice. 

At  any  rate,  I  have  the  advantage  of  having  spoken  a 
few  words  outside  of  business  topics  to  one  like  her. 
That  is  something. 

Now  I  will  record  a  matter  that  I  was  requested  to  keep 
altogether  secret  for  the  present,  but  I  do  not  feel  that 
writing  it  here  is  a  betrayal.  I  have  always  endeavored  to 
be  perfectly  open  and  frank  in  these  pages.  There  is  once 
more  a  rumor  around  that  I  may  be  appointed  assistant 
buyer  if  Mr.  Price's  illness  continues.  I  have  long  longed 
for  this  position,  but  I  do  not  feel  like  taking  it  at  the 
expense  of  Mr.  Price,  who  has  served  so  faithfully  and 
well.  It  is  said  he  has  Bright's  disease,  which  I  hope 
is  not  true. 

It  has  been  a  fine  sunny  day  with  a  little  rain,  much 
like  April.  I  wonder  how  a  person  of  the  quality  of  Mrs. 
Twombly  would  spend  a  day  like  this.  Probably  she 
motored  in  the  Park  in  the  afternoon.  I  took  a  consider- 
able walk  after  dinner  to  enjoy  the  evening  before 
retiring. 

Took  the  ferry  across  at  Ninety-second  Street  and 
walked  past  the  old  house  in  Astoria.  Thought  about 
things  too  numerous  to  mention. 


Second    Youth 


Whenever  Mr.  Francis  was  particularly  stirred  there 
was  likely  to  be  an  entry  about  a  walk  past  the  old  house 
in  Astoria. 

Years  before,  the  long,  many-windowed,  barn-shaped 
building  had  been  the  central  hearthstone  of  the  Francis 
family  in  America;  now  it  was  in  the  hands  of  a  real-estate 
speculator,  who  was  letting  it  decay  untenanted  while  the 
overflow  population  from  New  York  City,  just  across 
East  River,  forced  the  value  of  its  surrounding  five  acres 
of  land  steadily  upward. 

In  its  day  the  "  old  house  in  Astoria  "  had  been  a  mansion 
of  pretensions.  It  contained  twenty-nine  rooms,  wide 
stone  fireplaces,  and  much  old  English  furniture  that 
had  been  in  the  hands  of  the  family  since  the  first  Francis, 
own  brother  to  an  English  earl,  came  to  New  Amsterdam 
with  the  English  who  drove  out  the  Dutch  and  renamed 
the  settlement  New  York.  A  Francis  had  had  a  hand  in 
the  promulgation  of  that  famous  edict  prohibiting  riotous 
young  New-Yorkers  of  the  year  1700  from  "chasing, 
making  drunk  with  spirituous  liquors,  or  otherwise  annoy- 
ing, troubling,  or  molesting,  friendly  Indians  along  Water 
Street."  Once  a  Francis  had  barely  escaped  being  made 
governor  of  the  province. 

They  were  Tories  during  the  Revolution,  for  their 
sympathies  were  naturally  conservative;  but  they  made 
up  for  it  afterward  by  impoverishing  themselves  to  help 
along  the  halting  new  republic.  The  Civil  War  finished 
what  the  Revolution  had  begun.  True  conservatives 
that  they  had  always  been,  the  then  head  of  the 
family,  Mr.  Francis's  grandfather,  had  thrown  all  his 
influence  to  the  cause  of  the  South,  oppressed,  so  it 
seemed  to  him,  by  Northern  demagogy  and  malice. 

After  the  South  was  crushed  he  retired  into  his  books, 

8 


Second    Youth 


crushed  liimself,  bankrupt  in  pride  and  purse.  The 
house  declined. 

When  Mr.  Francis  was  born  the  decline  was  hastening 
along  to  a  debacle;  but,  in  the  way  of  once-strong  things, 
the  family  held  together  for  fourteen  years  after  his  birth. 
The  boy's  chief  recollections  of  the  place  had  to  do  with 
musty,  mildewing  odors,  leaks  in  the  roof,  dust,  cobwebs, 
disused  rooms  with  broken  window-panes  stuffed  with 
rags,  strange  old  leather  books  in  which  the  letter  "s" 
was  printed  like  an  "f,"  a  general  odor  of  despondency 
and  impending  ruin.  He  remembered  one  activity  of  his 
boyhood  very  well — it  was  standing  before  a  wide,  twelve- 
paned  window  and  crushing  flies  against  the  lower  panes. 
And  often  as  he  crushed  a  fly  beneath  his  thumb  he  wished 
that  God  would  reach  down  and  crush  him,  Roily  Francis, 
in  the  same  sudden,  complete  way.  He  was  an  only  child, 
had  been  born  when  his  mother  was  forty-eight,  his 
father  nearly  fifty,  and  the  spirit  of  failing  house,  failing 
family,  and  failing  parents  was  on  him. 

The  catastrophe  that  had  been  preparing  for  the  family, 
as  for  an  old  tree  rotting  outward  from  the  heart,  threw 
him  into  the  world  with  little  of  the  resiliency  that  a 
happier  childhood  might  have  given  him.  The  final  crash 
came  so  suddenly  that  Mr.  Francis  preserved  only  swoon- 
like  recollections  of  it. 

One  morning  a  white-faced  woman  neighbor  came  into 
his  bedroom  and  told  him  that  he  wouldn't  have  to  go  to 
school  that  day,  but  just  come  over  to  her  house  and  have 
breakfast  as  soon  as  he  got  up,  and  play  with  her  baby; 
his  dear  mother  had  gone  to  heaven  during  the  night. 
The  boy  asked  why  she  had  gone,  now  that  they  hadn't 
any  servants  and  needed  her  so  much,  and  the  woman 
answered  that  it  was  heart  failure,  the  doctor  thought. 


Second    Youth 


The  day  passed  in  a  kind  of  dull,  aching  emptiness. 
Roland  did  not  find  the  baby  as  interesting  as  usual,  nor 
did  he  find  the  neighbor's  house  as  interesting  as  he  had 
expected,  and  he  was  glad  to  go  home  to  spend  the  night. 
The  kind  neighbor  had  no  place  for  him  to  sleep,  and 
several  other  neighbors  were  sitting  up  in  the  Francis 
house,  so  he  wouldn't  be  lonely. 

He  did  not  see  his  father,  but  he  felt  the  old  man's 
presence  as  he  had  never  felt  it  before.  He  crept  into  the 
great  four-poster  bed,  in  the  midst  of  the  great  dingy 
chamber,  and  lay  there  shivering.  The  pale-blue  patch 
of  brightness  from  a  distant  arc-lamp  on  the  wall  beyond 
the  foot  of  his  bed  helped  to  keep  him  awake  by  its 
threat  of  some  terror  he  could  not  understand. 

There  were  sounds  in  the  house — occasional  low  sounds 
of  talking  from  the  neighbors  who  sat  in  the  down-stairs 
front  room,  creaking  of  the  decaying  joists  in  the  wall, 
snapping  of  the  dry  wall-paper,  hurrying  little  feet  of  rats 
and  mice  in  the  unused  rooms  and  attic.  And  another 
sound,  a  faint,  rustling  sound,  as  of  his  father's  carpet 
slippers  shuffling  all  over  the  house.  Now  they  were  on 
the  stairs,  now  in  his  mother's  room  across  the  hall,  now 
in  the  hallway  outside  the  boy's  door.  Mr.  Francis  still 
quivered  at  the  recollection  of  those  sounds. 

In  the  morning  the  old  man  was  found  on  a  couch  in 
the  attic,  with  a  big  leather  copy  of  Browning's  poems  in 
one  hand,  a  revolver  in  the  other,  and  a  bullet  in  his 
brain. 

Roland  Farwell  was  sent  to  an  uncle  who  had  disgraced 
the  family  traditions  by  despising  an  education,  had  run 
away  to  sea,  and  finally  had  settled  down  as  a  clothing 
merchant  in  Brooklyn.  He  defrayed  the  expenses  of  the 

double  funeral,  and  offered  to  take  the  boy  into  his  own 

10 


Second    Y outh 


home,  when  neighbors  brought  the  matter  to  his  attention; 
but  he  said  frankly  that  he  did  it  in  the  line  of  his  duty  and 
because  he  believed  in  practising  his  religion.  He  was  a 
good  Episcopalian,  as  the  earlier  Francises  had  been — an- 
other reason  for  the  neglected  acquaintance  between  him 
and  Roland's  free-thinking  father. 

The  boy  was  sent  to  a  manual-training  school,  which 
suited  him  as  little  as  possible.  The  merchant  kept  him 
at  it  for  three  years,  and  then,  in  disgust,  got  him  a  place 
in  McDavitt's  Department  Store,  which,  being  over  in 
Manhattan,  made  convenient  the  removal  of  young  Ro- 
land's melancholy  temperament  from  an  otherwise  jovial 
Brooklyn  flat. 

The  chance  that  threw  young  Francis  into  a  silk 
department  was  his  first  large  piece  of  luck.  He  had 
more  than  a  touch  of  that  wild  worship  of  beauty 
which  distinguishes  "the  artistic  temperament,"  and 
the  beautiful  fabrics  spoke  through  his  hands  and 
eyes  to  his  starved  soul.  With  the  assistance  of  poetry 
and  novels  from  the  public  library  he  settled  down 
to  an  existence  that  was  fairly  content,  on  the  whole, 
and  blissfully  happy  by  comparison  with  his  starva- 
tion in  the  manual-training  school  and  in  the  Brooklyn 
merchant's  flat. 

Sixteen  years  had  passed  without  making  any  astonish- 
ing changes  in  the  boy  who  had  started  in  McDavitt's 
silk  department.  He  had  developed,  but  slowly,  and 
the  changes  were  mostly  changes  of  capacity.  He 
was  like  a  fruit  tree  of  delayed  blossoming;  circum- 
stances of  rain  and  sun  would  have  the  most  to  do  in 
deciding  whether  he  would  expand  or  slowly  wither  up 
and  die. 

On  Tuesday,  March  21st,  he  wrote  in  the  book: 

11 


Second    Youth 


She  was  in  again  to-day  for  some  lemon  Tussah  to  trim 
the  Wild  Geranium  purchased  as  noted  eight  days  ago. 
She  remembered  our  conversation.  I  thanked  her  for 
the  word  "idealist,"  which  had  inspired  me  to  look  up 
"philosophy"  in  the  Encyc.  Brit.,  although  I  did  not 
understand  it  as  well  as  I  might. 

She  said  she  was  very  ignorant  of  philosophy  and 
might  read  the  article  herself,  if  I  recommended  it. 
She  was  very  friendly,  although  I  had  a  feeling  at 
times  that  perhaps  she  was  amused  by  me.  I  tried 
not  to  mind  this.  I  was  not  mistaken;  she  does  wear 
a  wedding-ring. 

She  asked  me  about  Tussah  silk,  and  I  said  it  was 
different  from  other  silks  because  the  two  little  threads 
that  sort  of  worm  puts  together  in  its  mouth  to  make  the 
single  fine  thread  he  spins  his  cocoon  out  of  were  joined  at 
the  edges  instead  of  on  the  flat  sides  as  with  most  silk. 
This  makes  it  more  liable  to  split  and  break,  but  the 
threads  are  wider,  which  makes  it  gleam  more,  although 
it  is  rougher. 

She  said  there  you  go  with  your  everlasting  worms, 
I  hate  worms.  I  apologized,  and  said  I  would  never 
mention  them  again.  She  then  said  she  was  very  much 
interested  in  them,  to  please  go  on.  I  told  her  how  the 
Tussah  worm  was  larger  than  the  ordinary  worm  and 
thrived  best  in  China,  although  some  very  good  Tussah 
used  to  come  from  France  before  this  regrettable  world- 
war.  In  spite  of  the  war,  I  said  it  was  a  pleasure  how  good 
things  usually  spread  from  country  to  country  while 
unfortunate  things  were  less  likely  to  do  so.  There  are 
many  objectionable  things  about  the  Chinese,  but  we  do 
not  import  much  of  them  by  comparison  with  silk. 

Do  you  know,  you  interest  me,  you  idealist,  she  r,aid. 

12 


Second    Youth 


How  do  you  happen  to  be  a  silk  salesman,  if  you'll  pardon 
the  question? 

I  said  I  hadn't  had  a  thing  to  do  with  it.  My  uncle 
had  got  me  the  work  and  I'd  stuck  at  it  because  it  was 
all  I  was  good  for  and  I  liked  to  handle  the  silks.  She 
said,  You  are  a  real  idealist,  and  I'm  glad,  for  the  sake 
of  my  soul,  I've  met  one. 

I  cannot  describe  the  sensation  this  gave  me.  But  I 
at  once  remembered  my  place,  and  also  that  she  is  in  all 
probability  a  wedded  wife.  Although,  of  course,  a  widow 
might  wear  a  wedding-ring  afterward.  I  bowed  to  her 
and  told  her  it  gave  me  deep  and  sincere  pleasure  to 
think  that  I  might  have  been  able  to  offer  any  information 
in  which  she  might  be  interested.  I  said  she  might  also  be 
interested  to  know  that  America  consumed  more  silk  nor- 
mally than  any  other  two  countries  on  the  face  of  the  globe. 
I  said  this  was  another  reason  I  loved  my  native  land,  even 
though  I  was  merely  a  clerk  in  a  department  store. 

I  do  not  know  what  was  wrong  about  this  remark. 
She  looked  away  across  the  store  for  a  moment,  seeming 
to  be  smiling,  and  then  said:  Is  my  bundle  not  ready 
yet?  I  seem  to  have  been  waiting  a  long  time.  I  saw 
then  that  she  was  not  smiling;  at  least  not  as  if  she  were 
amused.  She  looked  tired  and  almost  disgusted.  Per- 
haps she  remembered  the  worms.  I  think  she  is  very 
sensitive.  Of  course  I  handed  her  bundle  to  her  at  once. 
I  had  forgotten  it.  I  apologized  to  her  as  humbly  as  I 
could,  but  she  did  not  wait  for  me  to  finish. 

I  do  not  know  why  all  this  seems  so  important  to  me. 
My  mind  dwells  on  it  continually.  I  had  promised  to 
join  Whiggam  and  Morehouse  in  a  game  of  euchre  in  the 
front  parlor  after  dinner,  but  I  begged  off  by  saying  that  I 

needed  exercise,  and  went  for  a  long  walk. 

13 


Second    Youth 


Walked  past  the  old  house  in  Astoria  again  without 
meaning  to  when  I  went  out.  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a 
man  I  would  have  been  if  I  had  been  permitted  to  grow  up 
there?  Much  better,  I  suppose.  Still,  I  can  say  with 
Henley,  I  am  the  master  of  my  fate;  I  am  the  captain  of  my 
soul.  I  will  not  repine.  I  have  perhaps  repined  too  much 
of  late  years,  but  I  shall  grow  steadier  as  I  grow  older. 

Still  no  further  word  re  my  promotion.  I  sometimes 
wish  that  promotions  did  not  almost  always  depend  on  the 
misfortunes  of  others. 

A  splendid,  crisp  spring  day.  I  noticed  some  buds  on  a 
bush,  as  I  came  through  Central  Park  returning  from 
Astoria,  that  were  a  perfect  oyster  Japanese  in  the  light  of 
an  electric  lamp  near  by.  Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  there  is 
no  more  pleasant  color  for  many  moods  than  oyster.  But 
it  has  an  ordinary  sort  of  a  name. 

When  love  was  the  pearl  in  his  oyster. 

— SWINBURNE. 

That,  of  course,  has  no  application  to  me.  I  merely 
remembered  the  line.  But  it  is,  perhaps,  significant  that 
the  most  poetic  of  poets  uses  the  word  oyster — certainly 
not  a  poetic  word.  However,  I  have  always  disliked  Swin- 
burne for  his  vulgarity.  He  can  be  very  low  at  times.  I 
do  not  care  for  his  attitude  toward  women.  Or  love. 


Mr.  Francis's  own  attitude  toward  these  subjects  was 
virginal  to  the  point  of  being  ridiculous  to  the  general. 
He  had  never  even  kissed  a  woman,  lovewise,  in  his  life; 
and  he  would  as  readily  have  thought  of  doing  it  without 
the  preface  of  an  offer  of  marriage  as  of  rubbing  a  piece 

of  fine  silk  in  the  mire  of  a  cross-town  gutter. 

14 


II 


ME.  FRANCIS  IS  NOTED  IN  PARTICULAR  BT  HIS  PARTICULAR 
CUSTOMER 

IN  McDavitt's  silk  department  reigned  the  customary 
ten-o'clock  peacef illness;  only  the  muffled  gongs  of 
street-cars  outside  and  the  swishing  of  the  feet  of  a  few 
early  customers  along  the  carpeted  aisles  disturbed  the 
silence  of  the  high,  white-pillared  place  of  silks.  A 
pleasant  mixture  of  perfumes  was  in  the  air,  drifting  from 
the  toilet-and-drug  department  in  the  rear.  Mr.  Francis 
stood  among  his  blacks,  with  arms  folded  across  his  chest, 
tall,  serene,  delicately  good-looking  in  his  black  cut- 
away, black  ascot,  carefully  parted  hair,  and  gold-rimmed 
eye-glasses. 

He  was  looking  back,  along  a  vista  of  white  pillars  and 
many-colored  pyramids  of  silk,  to  where  a  man  in  a  tan 
raincoat  was  talking  to  a  salesgirl  in  the  toilet-and-drug 
department.  The  man  had  been  there  some  time.  He 
had  heavy  jowls  and  a  slight  air  of  swagger.  The  girl's 
eyes  were  cast  down  as  she  answered,  and  even  at  Mr. 
Francis's  distance  he  could  see  that  her  cheeks  were 
flushed. 

He  didn't  like  it.  Without  reasoning  about  it  at  all, 
with  the  same  general  attitude  toward  all  the  salesgirls 
as  his  customers  displayed  toward  him,  he  objected. 
He  knew  nothing  of  the  wild  tales  of  immorality  among 

15 


Second    Youth 


department-store  girls  circulated  outside,  and  he  had 
knowledge  and  intuition  enough  to  assure  himself  of  their 
general  falseness  if  he  had  known.  He  saw  merely  that 
the  girl  was  being  bothered.  In  a  few  minutes,  he  de- 
cided, he  would  stroll  back  that  way  and  take  one  good 
straight  look  at  the  heavy-jowled,  tan-raincoated  man; 
previous  experience  had  convinced  him  that  one  look 
would  be  enough  and  that  the  girl  would  be  grateful. 

He  waited,  giving  the  tan-raincoated  man  the  benefit 
of  a  full  minute.  A  lady  strolled  into  his  aisle,  twelve  feet 
away,  and  came  toward  him;  and  with  her  approach  all 
of  Mr.  Francis's  other  interests  vanished  like  candle- 
lights at  the  approach  of  the  sun. 

She  was  tall,  straight,  broad-shouldered;  her  raincoat 
of  tan  silk  swung  negligently  open  in  front  to  reveal  the 
blue  tailored  suit  beneath.  She  carried  a  folded  umbrella 
in  one  hand,  and  came  forward  a  little  jauntily,  with  a 
faint  little  swagger  of  ease  and  self-possession.  There 
was  grace,  lack  of  any  superfluity,  about  her;  her  smooth 
cheeks  were  neither  plump  nor  hollow,  her  jaunty  little 
blue  turban  neither  fashionable  nor  out  of  style.  Her 
mouth  was  curved  by  half  a  smile,  and  her  eyes,  gray- 
blue  and  steady,  were  slightly  admiring,  slightly  scornful, 
of  everything. 

"Hello!"  she  said;  and  her  full-toned  contralto  voice 
managed  to  make  the  word  neither  personal  nor  imper- 
sonal, neither  intimate  nor  conventional. 

"  Good  morning,"  replied  Mr.  Francis,  finding  his  voice, 
or  at  least  a  small,  cracked  piece  of  it,  only  after  some 
trouble. 

She  began  negligently  unbottoning  a~glove,  looking  over 
Mr.  Francis  and  over  the  array  of  blacks  on  the  shelves 

behind  him.     "I  thought  it  might  rain  when  I  started," 

16 


Second    Youth 


she  said,  "but  it  looks,  now,  as  if  we  might  have  a  fine 
day."  She  ripped  the  glove  off  suddenly,  nervously. 
Mr.  Francis  was  surprised,  made  even  more  nervous  than 
he  was  before.  It  was  plain  that  she  was  far  from  being 
as  much  at  her  ease  as  she  seemed  outwardly  to  be. 

"And  what,"  he  asked,  with  his  best  English-butler  air, 
"may  I  have  the  pleasure  of  showing  you  this  morning?" 

She  sat  down  on  one  of  the  little  revolving-chairs. 
"You  might  show  me  some  black  satin,"  she  said. 

When  he  glanced  back  at  her,  with  a  bolt  in  his  hands, 
he  found  her  eyes  on  his  face;  there  was  a  forced  boldness 
in  her  eyes  that  made  him  drop  his  own.  He  was  em- 
barrassed, not  only  by  the  boldness  in  her  eyes,  but  by 
the  fact  that  it  seemed  forced.  He  was  also  pained  and 
troubled. 

"  I  should  think  you'd  have  a  rather  boresome  time  of  it 
here,"  she  remarked,  fingering  the  satin.  "But  I  suppose 
you  make  up  for  it  after  working-hours?" 

"No,"  he  admitted,  tremendously  pleased,  and  yet 
with  a  good  deal  of  perplexity  behind  his  pleasure.  "No 
— I  suppose  I  have  a  fairly  boresome  time  most  of  the 
time." 

"Married?"  asked  Mrs.  Twombly.  A  smile  and  a 
glance  accompanied  the  question. 

Mr.  Francis  blushed  to  the  top  of  his  high  forehead  and 
around  to  each  ear.  "No,"  he  said;  "no — I  haven't  had 
that  pleasure!" 

"Maybe  if  you  had  you  wouldn't  be  so  complimentary 
about  it,"  returned  the  lady,  cheerfully  satirical,  much 
more  at  her  ease  because  of  Francis's  embarrassment. 
"But  perhaps  I  shouldn't  knock  holy  matrimony — per- 
haps you've  already  got  some  one  in  mind  and  intend  to 
embark  at  the  earliest  opportunity?" 

17 


Second    Y  outh 


Mr.  Francis  chuckled  foolishly.  "No — ah — no!"  he 
stammered.  "I — in  fact — nothing  of  the  sort,  Mrs. 
Twombly!" 

"How  did  you  come  to  know  my  name?"  she  asked, 
altogether  friendly  and  chatty. 

"Oh,"  said  Francis,  "oh — oh  yes — your  name —  You 
see,  I  took  the  liberty  of  remembering  it  from  that  bill — 
the  first  bill,  the  wild  geranium  you  had  sent  to  your 
residence — not  the  lemon  tussah  you  took  with  you  last 
week.  I  hope  you'll  pardon — " 

She  interrupted :  "  I  appreciate  the  compliment  of  your 
remembering  my  name,  and  I  certainly  sha'n't  pardon 
you  for  it!  I  think  it  shows  you — rather  like  me — 
doesn't  it?  I  confess  I  rather  like  you!" 

Mr.  Francis  would  have  answered  if  his  vocal  cords 
hadn't  been  paralyzed  by  joy  too  great. 

"You  do  like  me,  don't  you?"  insisted  Mrs.  Twombly, 
leaning  forward  to  look  up,  without  any  great  boldness, 
and  certainly  not  with  diffidence,  into  his  face. 

The  question  was  quite  unnecessary;  it  would  have  been 
plain  to  the  merest  tyro,  which  she  obviously  was  not, 
that  here  was  a  complete  conquest.  Mr.  Francis  was  hers, 
body  and  soul,  every  visible  inch  of  him,  and  all  the 
invisibles  that  spoke  in  his  worshipful  hazel  eyes. 

"I  do — like  you —  You  know  it!"  he  choked.  He 
was  as  embarrassed  as  a  nice  girl,  a  carefully  reared 
salesgirl,  completely  captivated  by  a  handsome  young 
business  man  at  least  a  dozen  social  ranks  above  her. 

"There — I  wouldn't  have  been  so — so  friendly,  if  I 
hadn't  known  it,"  confessed  the  lady.  She  was  as  pleased 
and  protectingly  friendly  as  a  handsome  young  business 
man  who  has  captivated  a  carefully  reared  salesgirl.  "I 

cUdn't  come  in  this  morning  to  look  at  satin — I  came  jn 

18 


Second    Youth 


to  see  you!  I've  been  thinking  about  you  ever  since  our 
last  conversation.  I'm  lonely,  and  it  seems  that  you're 
lonely — and  so —  She  paused  a  moment,  with  a  slight 
catch  of  her  breath,  and  went  on  calmly,  "So  I  thought 
I'd  drop  in  and  ask  you  whether  you'd  think  it  was  very 
shocking  if  I  asked  you  to  go  out  to  dinner  with  me — 
and  perhaps  to  the  theater  afterward — some  evening?" 

Again  Mr.  Francis  would  have  answered  but  for  paralyz- 
ing contractions  of  his  vocal  cords.  A  wretch  does  not 
contemplate  heaven,  a  sort  of  delirious  rose-and-gold 
Mohammedan  heaven,  with  equanimity. 

She  argued  with  him,  gently,  persuasively:  "Of  course 
I  know  this  is — is  rather  unconventional;  but  does  it  pay 
to  be  too  conventional  all  the  time?  Wouldn't  we  miss  a 
lot  of  enjoyment — of  real  living — if  we  were  always  con- 
ventional? I'm  lonesome;  so  are  you.  You  know  a  good 
deal  about  silk  and  philosophy;  perhaps  I  know  other 
things  I  could  exchange — perhaps  there'd  be  benefits  for 
both  of  us  in  knowing  each  other.  Won't  you  say  yes?" 

"I  would  have  said  so  before,"  Mr.  Francis  assured  her, 
huskily,  "if  I'd  been  able  to  speak!  All  my  life  I've 
dreamed — dreamed  of  some  one  like  you — " 

"There,  there — we  mustn't  get  too  excited!"  she 
cautioned  him.  "I  think  a  floor-walker  in  the  next  aisle 
is  getting  interested!" 

She  had  been  speaking  in  a  lowered  voice,  suitable  to 
then*  subject-matter;  in  the  fullness  of  her  rich  contralto, 
she  resumed: 

"  Very  well,  then,  you  may  send  me  three  yards  of  that. 
I  think  you  have  my  address?" 

"Yes,  madam.  Thank  you!"  returned  Mr.  Francis, 
firmly,  astonishing  himself  by  his  ability,  almost  in- 
stinctive, it  seemed,  to  play  up  to  her.  "And  is  there  any 

19 


Second    Youth 


further  matter  in  which  I  might  have  the  pleasure  of 
serving  you?" 

Mrs.  Twombly's  eyes  danced  with  appreciation;  she 
looked  at  him,  straight  in  his  eyes,  which  managed  to  hold 
steady.  Her  lips  smiled  with  sudden  humor. 

"You  might  shave  off  those  sideburns!"  she  flashed  at 
him,  in  a  crisp  half -whisper;  "you've  got  enough  of  them 
in  your  temperament  without  wearing  them  on  your  face 
— and  you'd  look  even  handsomer  without  them  than  you 
do  now!" 

Mr.  Francis  raised  a  palsied  hand  to  one  side  of  his 
palsied  face. 

"Forgive  me — but  really,  you  would  look  better  with- 
out them!"  she  went  on,  spreading  the  balm  of  a  smile 
and  of  words  like  birds'  notes  over  any  damage  she  might 
have  done.  "Now  I  must  run!  And  then  it's  under- 
stood that  you'll  meet  me  this  evening — at  Churchill's — 
at  seven  o'clock?  I'll  have  a  table  reserved.  You  can 
just  ask  for — for  Miss  Winton's  table.  You'll  come?" 

"Yes — yes — with  a  thousand  thanks — "  he  agreed, 
smoothing  the  silk. 

"You  have  wonderful  hands!"  she  said,  and  turned 
away  and  strolled  down  the  aisle. 

He  forgot  even  to  look  after  her  until  she  had  disap- 
peared around  a  neighboring  display-column  of  cerise 
messaline.  With  the  slow  motions  and  expressionlessness 
of  a  somnambulist  he  restored  the  bolt  of  black  satin  to 
its  place  on  the  shelves.  There  was  a  glory  around  him, 
a  throbbing,  thrilling,  outburst  of  beauty  that  trans- 
figured the  familiar  silk  department  of  McDavitt's  De- 
partment Store,  that  was  almost  heart-stopping  in  its 
first  effects. 

Gradually  his  joy,  working  outward,  reached  his  face, 

20 


Second    Youth 


reached  all  of  him,  expressed  itself  in  every  attitude  and 
movement.  He  was  proud,  the  new  uplift  of  his  chin 
said;  his  complexion  improved,  became  pinkish;  his  eyes 
were  full  of  a  new  light;  his  step  was  quick;  his  very  jaw 
looked  longer. 

He  felt,  with  some  savageness,  at  his  heretofore  cher- 
ished sideburns;  he  could  hardly  wait  for  his  luncheon- 
hour  to  have  them  removed. 

"So  she  is  a  widow,  after  all!"  he  told  himself;  and  had 
not  the  slightest  doubt  of  it. 

"She  must  be  one  of  these  new  women.  I  must  read 
more  about  them — I  have  perhaps  not  given  enough  at- 
tention to  such  articles  as  I  have  seen  about  them  in  the 
magazines.  They  are  not  bound  by  traditions — and  yet 
no  one  can  say  they  are  unwomanly — she  was  perfectly 
womanly — and  nice  in  everything  she  said  or  did,"  he 
argued  with  himself.  "She  was  perfectly  friendly — and 
reasonable — and  undoubtedly  we  do  set  too  much  store 
by  conventions." 

Among  his  shelves  and  counters  he  prodded  and  patted 
with  absent-minded  carefulness.  From  time  to  time  he 
stared  at  his  hands;  he  wriggled  the  fingers  before  his 
eyes;  he  had  a  great  and  awakened  interest  in  his  hands; 
but  he  could  not,  for  the  life  of  him,  see  just  why  they 
should  have  appealed  to  Mrs.  Twombly  as  "wonderful." 

Even  when  new  customers  appeared,  it  was  only  a 
small  portion  of  Mr.  Francis  that  waited  on  them. 
"Churchill's,"  he  was  thinking,  while  his  nickel  scissors 
delicately  severed  five  yards  of  mauve  peau  de  soie,  "  that 
is  a  rather  expensive  place,  of  course.  How  fortunate  it  is 
that  I  have  always  lived  well  within  my  means!  After 
this  sale  I  shall  ask  for  a  shopping-permit  and  go  out  and 
cash  a  check  for  thirty-five  dollars.  That  should  be 


Second    Y outh 


enough.  She  did  not  mention  the  theater,  but  doubtless 
I  can  call  up  the  one  she  prefers  from  the  restaurant:  or 
at  least  it  is  probable  that  I  can  secure  seats  at  a  slight 
advance  at  some  of  the  ticket  agencies." 

The  problem  of  clothes  also  came  up  for  solution. 
"I  suppose  I  should  have  an  evening  suit,  but  I  fear  my 
black  cutaway  will  have  to  do,"  he  decided  on  this  point. 
"  While  I  am  out  on  my  shopping-permit  I  might  purchase 
a  new  vest  to  wear  with  it.  Something  rather  rich; 
approaching  an  oyster  shade,  perhaps." 

Toward  four  o'clock,  in  spite  of  his  preoccupations,  he 
became  so  restless  that  he  took  out  his  diary  and  tried  to 
relieve  his  mind  by  writing  about  the  recent  wonderful 
event  in  his  life. 

Under  the  date  of  Friday,  March  24th,  he  began: 

"To-day  has  been  full  of  very — "  he  wrote,  in  his  fine, 
copper-plate  hand,  and  stalled  for  lack  of  the  proper  word. 
"Wonderful"  was  not  strong  enough  to  characterize  that 
day's  events.  "Strange"  would  not  do  either.  "Celes- 
tial "  was  better,  and  yet  it  did  not  altogether  suit  him. 

He  returned  the  book  to  his  pocket,  and  spent  the  two 
hours  up  to  closing-time  in  searching  for  the  proper 
adjective.  Just  before  the  closing-gongs  rang  he  got  out 
the  book  and,  leaving  a  space  for  that  adjective  when  he 
should  have  found  it,  added  "events"  and  a  period. 

His  entry  then  read,  "To-day  has  been  full  of  very" — 
blank — "events."  He  decided  that  that  would  do  until 
he  could  discover  the  tremendous  adjective  that  the 
sentence  demanded. 

In  spite  of  the  new  vest,  of  a  most  delicate  oyster 

22 


Second    Youth 


silk,  Mr.  Francis  felt  out  of  place  in  Churchill's.  He 
sat  down  at  the  little  ivory  side  table  to  which  a  waiter 
conducted  him.  Mrs.  Twombly  had  not  arrived;  and 
he  was  glad  of  that,  for  it  gave  him  an  opportunity 
to  get  himself  in  hand  a  bit  without  her  additionally 
exciting  presence. 

Among  other  things,  the  absence  of  his  sideburns  both- 
ered him.  He  felt  almost  as  if  he  had  parted  with  a 
familiar  and  necessary  article  of  clothing.  The  aus- 
terity of  the  tuxedo-coated  waiters,  which  might  have 
awed  another  man,  did  not  impress  him.  He  had 
attained  much  their  superior  air,  and  knew  how  hollow 
it  was. 

A  glance  into  the  plate-glass-mirrored  wall  beside  him 
reassured  him  a  little;  in  his  black  coat  and  high  collar, 
with  his  largeish  nose  surmounted  by  his  gold-rimmed 
glasses,  he  looked  intellectual,  even  a  trifle  aristocratic. 
He  had  managed  to  forget  his  out-of-placeness,  even  to 
become  reconciled  to  the  loss  of  his  sideburns,  before 
Mrs.  Twombly  was  shown  up  to  his  table. 

"Hello!"  she  said,  in  the  same  careless,  careful,  per- 
sonal, impersonal  contralto  that  had  spellbound  him  that 
morning. 

"Good  evening,"  he  said,  and  had  the  presence  of  mind 
to  rise  to  her  outstretched  hand.  But  after  he  had  taken 
it  he  almost  forgot  to  let  go,  to  return  to  his  chair.  She 
was  marvelous  in  his  eyes. 

She  had  left  her  wraps  outside,  and  her  bronze-gold  hair 
gleamed  in  an  artfully  careless  mass  above  the  delicate 
mingling  of  girlishness  and  balanced  maturity  in  her 
coral-touched  face,  above  the  very  white,  not  over- 
powdered  smoothness  of  her  shoulders  and  upper  arms. 

Her  gown,  maline  over  the  palest  of  blue  chiffons,  was 

23 


Second    Youth 


embroidered  in  gold  and  rose  and  piped  with  dark  blue 
at  shoulder-straps  and  girdle.  It  was  very  plain,  and  the 
square  neck  was  cut  unusually  high  for  that  assemblage; 
and  yet,  in  accordance  with  her  contradictory  and  in- 
clusive personality,  it  seemed  rich,  daring,  mysterious, 
and  intricate  beyond  the  more  elaborate  creations  that 
surrounded  them. 

"I  hope  you  haven't  been  waiting  long?"  she  asked, 
casually,  slipping  her  hands  through  the  wrist-openings  of 
her  long  white  gloves  and  pushing  them  up  a  bit  on  her 
arms.  She  went  on,  without  waiting  for  an  answer: 
"You  do  look  much  better  without  those  sideburns — in 
fact,  you  look  perfectly  scrumptious!" 

Mr.  Francis  could  not  think  of  any  reply  that  might 
suitably  be  expressed  in  the  presence  of  the  waiter,  who 
had  returned  with  heavy  white  napery,  glasses  of  diverse 
shapes  and  sizes,  and  silver.  He  sat  in  the  calm,  rather 
bored  silence  he  had  already  managed  to  imitate  from 
the  men  about  him.  Succeeding  events  were  giving  him 
poise;  he  was  as  adaptable  as  a  girl,  or  as  any  other  sen- 
sitive, observant  man. 

Calmly,  as  he  had  seen  other  men  do,  he  took  up  the 
big  menu  card  and  stared  at  it.  He  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  where  to  begin  nor  how  to  proceed;  he  had  lived  in  a 
boarding-house  all  his  life,  where  those  matters  solved 
themselves  automatically,  and  yet  he  was  ready  to  make 
the  attempt.  The  chances  are  that  it  would  have  been  a 
creditable  one.  But  he  was  interrupted. 

"You  know,  of  course,  I'm  attending  to  all  the  details 
of  this  dinner!"  Mrs.  Twombly  told  him,  with  a  side- 
glance  that  included  the  waiter.  "Suppose  we  have 
Bronx  cocktails — with  plenty  of  orange- juice — very  mild, 
you  know."  This  last  was  directed  at  the  waiter.  "And 

24 


Second    Youth 


then  a  clear  soup — and  a  bit  of  sea-bass — and  a  planked 
steak.  Do  you  like  planked  steak?" 

This  last  was  directed  at  Mr.  Francis. 

"It  would  suit  me  admirably,"  he  said,  "although  I 
think  I  ought  to  protest — " 

"And  a  bottle  of  that  Chablis,"  continued  Mrs.  Twom- 
bly,  drawing  the  waiter's  attention  to  it  by  underscoring 
with  her  fork  a  line  on  the  back  of  the  card.  "Now,  you 
can  bring  on  the  first  things,  and  we'll  settle  details  later." 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  protest — "  began  Mr.  Francis  again 
when  the  waiter  had  departed;  but  again  he  was  inter- 
rupted. 

"That's  what  I  like  about  you — one  of  the  things  I 
like  about  you,"  said  Mrs.  Twombly;  "you  aren't  going 
to  protest — and  you  don't  really  think  you  ought  to! 
Now,  I  suppose,  most  men  would  protest  violently — they'd 
think  a  woman  had  no  right  to  order  for  herself — trog- 
lodytes !  But,  you  know,  this  is  leap-year — and,  anyway, 
women  aren't  quite  the  same  as  they  were  a  few  years 
ago!" 

"Yes,  women  are  changing,"  admitted  Mr.  Francis. 
He  was  wondering  what  "troglodyte"  meant.  It  was  a 
new  word,  and  words  interested  him. 

"I  don't  suppose  you've  ever  been  here  before?"  asked 
Mrs.  Twombly. 

"No,"  admitted  Mr.  Francis. 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  like  it — and  I  thought  you'd 
fit  here  pretty  well,  too,"  she  told  him;  her  calm,  blue- 
gray  eyes  looked  him  over  with  approbation,  and  with  a 
little  quiet  amusement  that  she  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal. 
"And  you  do  fit  here,  too.  You  distinctly  have  an  air. 
Already  I've  noticed  several  of  the  women  looking  at 

you!" 

3  25 


Second    Youth 


Mr.  Francis,  blushing  slightly,  replied:  "I  am  afraid, 
if  I  have  an  air,  it  is  all  on  the  outside.  I  must  admit  I 
do  not  feel  at  home — entirely!" 

She  laughed  at  him,  openly,  with  a  series  of  contralto 
chuckles  that  might  have  had  a  sting  if  he  had  had  more 
pride  and  worldly  wisdom.  Being  altogether  meek  and 
adoring,  he  was  only  glad  that  he  had  given  her  amuse- 
ment. "I  can't  understand  whatever  it  was  you  found 
interesting  in  me,"  he  told  her,  naively,  and  meant  it. 

The  waiter  brought  their  cocktails  and  stole  softly 
away. 

"  Suppose  you  begin  by  telling  me  what  it  was  you  found 
interesting  in  me,"  she  suggested;  "for  you  did  find  me 
interesting,  awfully  interesting,  right  from  the  moment 
when  I  appeared — in  search  of  that  wild  geranium  that 
you  remembered  so  well!  Please  tell  me  what  made  you 
find  me  so  interesting.  You  don't  find  all  your  women 
customers  interesting,  do  you?" 

Mr.  Francis  considered.  "Not  nearly  all.  Practically 
none  of  them,"  he  told  her,  with  a  finality  that  was  a 
witness  to  his  insight,  if  not  to  his  absolute  veracity.  "  I 
think  the  thing  that  interested  me  in  you  most  was  that 
— that  you  seemed  to  know  things;  and  that,  of  course, 
you're  very — very  beautiful." 

She  nodded  gravely.  "I  am  very  well  preserved,  con- 
sidering my  age  and  experiences,"  she  admitted.  "And 
I  do  know  something — and  I'm  anxious  to  find  out  more. 
I'm  glad  you — " 

"That  was  it,  too!"  interrupted  Mr.  Francis,  showing  a 
little  excitement.  "You  seemed  to  be  alive,  you  know — 
ready  to  find  out  things.  I  liked  that — that  way  you  had 
of  walking — and  holding  your  head — as  if  you  weren't 
afraid!  Now,  I" — he  hesitated,  and  then  admitted  it: 

26 


Second    Youth 


"I've  always  been — well — afraid  of  things.  I  always 
imagined  I'd  like  to  meet  some  woman  whom  I  could 
— sort  of — stay  behind — "  He  paused,  suddenly  reti- 
cent, shy. 

"I  understand  you  perfectly,"  she  told  him.  "There 
is  a  great  deal  of  the  woman  in  you — as  there  is,  of  course, 
in  all  men  of  delicacy  and  perception." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think — "  protested  Francis,  slightly  hor- 
rified. 

"That  isn't  any  knock  on  your  manhood!"  she  in- 
terrupted, breaking  once  more  into  a  ripple  of  chuckles. 
"You're  a  very  good  man,  too!  And  so,  in  many  ways, 
ami!" 

Mr.  Francis  was  pained  and  troubled.  He  did  not  in 
the  least  understand  her;  he  was  even  inclined  to  the 
Use  majeste  of  disbelief. 

"That's  the  reason  I  was  so  beastly  unhappy  with  my 
late  husband — he  was  a  pure  male,  as  blunt  and  masculine 
as  his  name — which  I  hate,"  she  went  on,  tartly;  "and 
that's  the  reason  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  call  me  Miss 
Winton — and  to  think  of  me  as  that.  Come,  let's  drink 
our  cocktails!  To — to  our  better  acquaintance,  as  the 
most  popular  toast  goes  when  two  of  the  superior  sex 
happen  to  meet!" 

There  was  matter  enough  in  this  short  speech  to  set 
Mr.  Francis's  head  in  several  varieties  of  whirl.  It 
whirled  villainously  while  he  drank  his  cocktail;  it 
whirled  so  that  he  did  not  notice  he  was  drinking  the  first 
cocktail  he  had  ever  drank.  Fortunately,  it  was  very 
mild;  it  hardly  puckered  up  his  throat  at  all,  and  it  was 
not  positively  distasteful. 

So  she  was  really  a  widow — that  was  one  thing  to  make 

his  head  spin.     And  she  had  worn  that  wedding-ring 

27 


Second    Youth 


afterward.  He  looked  at  her  two  hands,  one  still  pursed 
like  a  long  white  flower  near  the  stem  of  her  wine-glass, 
the  other  toying  with  the  fork  with  which  she  had  scored 
the  wine-list.  There  was  no  wedding-ring  on  her  hand — 
it  was  gone.  In  his  perturbation  he  stared  at  the  hand 
which  held  the  fork — he  had  finally  decided  that  that  was 
her  left  one — as  if  it  had  been  some  rare  curiosity. 

"You're  looking  for  my  wedding-ring!"  she  decided, 
amused  and  a  little  startled,  it  seemed. 

"I — excuse  me — I — "  stammered  Francis. 

"I  took  it  off  to-day — and  I  sha'n't  put  it  back.  It's 
queer  how  customs,  traditions,  conventions  linger.  And 
so  you  noticed  even  that!"  she  said,  and  sat  looking  at 
him. 

From  beneath  his  long  lashes,  with  his  head  bent  for- 
ward a  little  in  an  abashed  way,  Mr.  Francis  looked  at 
her.  She  was  very  clear-cut,  adventurous,  readier  to  act 
than  to  think.  Perhaps  that  part  of  her  personality  was 
best  expressed  by  her  nose;  it  was  a  sizable,  thin  nose, 
and  it  jutted  out  in  a  mildly  self-assertive  way  from  the 
good  straight  line  of  her  forehead  and  chin,  curving  a  little 
hawk-fashion,  and  showing  rose-color  at  both  narrow 
nostrils.  The  drooping  corners  of  her  rather  wide  mouth 
gave  her  the  look  of  tiredness  that  Francis  had  noted  in  his 
diary  after  their  first  meeting;  but  it  was  a  spiritual  tired- 
ness, a  tiredness  of  the  things  she  had  lived.  Her  lips 
were  red  with  the  rich,  dark  red  of  American  Beauty  roses, 
and  they  and  her  quick  eyes  suggested  the  alertness  of  a 
full-blown  woman,  vividly  alive  in  every  one  of  her  senses. 
Francis  was  the  shadow  to  her  quivering  sunlight. 

"I  wonder  if  you've  ever  had  a  planked  steak?"  she 
asked,  calmly,  when  the  big,  ornate  platterful  of  eatables 
was  set  between  them. 


Second    Youth 


"No,"  he  admitted.  "The  color  combination  is  very 
good,  isn't  it?" 

"I'd  never  thought  of  that,  but  it  is,"  she  agreed; 
and  relieved  the  waiter  of  the  task  of  carving. 

Francis  watched  her,  alive  to  the  opportunity  of  in- 
struction against  a  possible  future  occasion. 

The  Chablis  had  gone  to  his  head  a  little,  light  though 
it  was,  dulling  parts  of  him,  making  parts  of  him  more 
alive.  He  noticed  and  enjoyed  the  sensuous  music  of 
the  orchestra.  He  noticed,  also,  the  caperings  of  two 
dancers  in  filmy  gowns  and  pink-silk  tights  on  the  stage 
at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  and  enjoyed  them,  even  though 
he  felt  it  was  improper  to  allow  himself  more  than  oc- 
casional glances  in  their  direction. 

His  eyes  were  always  returning  for  quick  glances  at  the 
woman  opposite  him,  and  her  eyes,  bent  on  the  same  sur- 
mising, speculating  business,  frequently  met  his.  They 
talked  little,  and  yet  there  seemed  a  constant  intimate 
interchange  between  them;  sometimes  they  smiled 
briefly  when  their  eyes  met,  and  then  the  sense  of  inti- 
mate interchange  was  heightened. 

After  the  liqueurs  mandarine  she  ordered  a  box  of 
cigarettes,  opened  it,  and  offered  it  to  him.  Francis 
awkwardly  took  one  and  permitted  the  waiter  to  help 
him  light  it. 

"You  don't  smoke,  do  you?"  commented  Miss  Winton, 
when  the  waiter  had  vanished  again.  "It's  one  of  the 
things  to  know  how  to  do,  anyway." 

Francis  gravely  admitted  that  it  was.  He  noticed,  with 
a  strange  exaltation  that  was  more  sensuous  than  sensual, 
that  her  cheeks  had  more  color  than  when  she  had  come 
in,  that  even  the  whiteness  of  her  upper  arms  and  shoulders 

was  faintly  tinged  with  rose. 

29 


Second    Youth 


"I  suppose,"  she  said,  reflectively,  settling  herself  with 
her  head  aslant  and  one  long-gloved  forearm  on  the  table, 
"a  good  many  of  the  salesgirls  in  McDavitt's — "  She 
hesitated.  "A  good  many  of  them  are  beaued  around  by 
men  considerably  above  them — chance  customers  who 
admire  them,  you  know?" 

Francis  remembered  the  situation  in  the  toilet-and-drug 
department  which  Miss  Winton's  appearance  had  ended — 
as  far  as  he  was  concerned. 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  said. 

"And  I  suppose  you'd  disapprove?"  she  suggested. 

"I  hadn't  thought  much  about  it,"  he  admitted. 
"But — yes — I  don't  think  any  good  can  come  of  it." 

"Why  not?"  She  looked  at  him  keenly,  with  the  slight 
scornfulness  that  sometimes  tempered  her  amusement  in 
his  replies.  "The  girls  are  educated  by  it  to  a  certain 
extent,  aren't  they?  They  have  opportunities,  pleasures 
— and  real  life — that  the  strictly  good  girls  don't  have, 
don't  they?  Don't  you  think  it's  often  worth  the  cost 
to  them — if  the  cost  isn't  too  high?" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps,"  said  Francis.  He  was  dis- 
turbed by  the  slight  scornfulness  that  tinged  her  words 
no  less  than  her  expression.  For  the  first  time  he  was 
reminded  that  he  was  only  a  department-store  clerk,  that 
she  was  "above"  him,  somewhere  high  above  him;  he 
could  dimly  guess  how  far.  For  some  peculiar  reason  this 
increased  his  adoration  of  her  and  added  a  tang  of 
fierceness  to  it.  For  the  first  time  he  wanted  to  kiss  her: 
he  wanted  to  kiss  her  hard,  and  say  "There!"  He  was 
surprised  at  himself. 

"Of  course  it  seems  rather  too — too  easy  for  the  men," 
Miss  Winton  went  on.  "They  have  their  good  time — 

and  when  they're  through  they're  through.    But  still, 

30 


Second    Youth 


if  fortune  or  hard  work  has  given  them  that  prerogative — 
and  they  give  good  value  for  value  received — why  shouldn't 
they?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Francis. 

She  was  lecturing  him,  talking  down  to  him  from  a 
higher  plane,  instructing  him  with  the  faint  sarcasm  and 
superciliousness  due  a  too-cocksure  child.  He  hadn't 
been  too  cocksure  about  anything.  He  loved  her  des- 
perately; as  long  as  she  had  seemed  to  descend  to 
him,  to  be  on  an  equal  and  friendly  plane  with  him, 
he  had  not  felt  that  desperateness.  She  was  slipping 
away  from  him.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  kind  of 
mute  appeal  in  his  large,  hazel-colored  eyes:  desperate- 
ness,  his  intuition  told  him  quickly  enough,  would  do  no 
good  with  her. 

The  orchestra  struck  up  a  blaring  tango  tune.  The 
dancers  on  the  stage  returned  with  others,  and  all  of  them 
wore  fewer  clothes.  In  an  open  space  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  couples  were  beginning  to  dance. 

"It's  getting  noisy  and  hectic  here,"  Miss  Winton  de- 
cided, abruptly.  "Let's  go  somewhere  where  we  can 
talk."  She  summoned  the  waiter  with  a  lazy  motion  of 
one  long  arm.  "Check,  please,"  she  said. 

While  Mr.  Francis  suffered  in  silence,  feeling,  somehow, 
that  he  had  been  deprived  of  a  prerogative,  she  glanced 
over  the  account,  paid  it  from  a  little  gold-mesh  purse  that 
came  out  of  some  fold  of  the  silks  that  covered  her  bosom, 
and  rose  to  go. 

"Wait  for  me  in  the  lobby,"  she  told  Mr.  Francis,  and 
he  nodded  humble  acquiescence  in  her  continued  ordering 
of  their  destinies. 

In  the  lobby  he  tipped  the  hat-boy  carelessly,  as  he 
saw  other  men  do,  and  received  his  plain,  black,  soft  hat 


Second    Youth 


in  some  abashment  because  of  the  opera  and  silk  hats  all 
around.  While  he  waited  near  the  outer  doors,  with  an 
air  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  head  waiter,  he 
speculated  on  what  their  dinner  had  cost  and  on  what 
theater  tickets  might  cost,  especially  if  Miss  Winton  pre- 
ferred a  theater  at  which  seats  could  be  had  only  of  a 
speculator.  Thus  far  he  had  spent  only  the  quarter  tip 
given  to  the  hat-boy;  counting  in  a  taxi,  two  theater 
tickets,  and  car  fare  home  for  himself,  the  evening  would 
not  cost  him  more  than  eight  dollars.  Money  was  in- 
tensely important  to  him:  he  regulated  its  use  as  a  care- 
ful dyspeptic  regulates  his  food.  And  precisely  because 
it  was  so  important  he  wanted  to  spend  as  much  as  he 
could  in  giving  Miss  Winton  pleasure. 

"In  taking  her  to  a  simple  theater  I  shall  probably  be 
sacrificing  more  for  her  than  many  another  man  would 
by  escorting  her  to  a  box  at  the  Metropolitan,"  he  told 
himself,  and  hoped  that  she  would  choose  a  theater  where 
some  friendly  speculator  would  charge  him  at  least  four 
dollars  each  for  seats. 

She  had  slipped  her  hand  into  his  arm  almost  before  he 
recognized  her;  a  heavy  spangled  scarf  over  her  hair 
and  a  pale-blue  evening  coat  of  watered  silk  had  changed 
her,  given  her  a  new  glory.  The  gold-braided  doorman 
marched  before  them  as  she  steered  him  carefully  athwart 
the  eight-o'clock  flood-tide  on  Broadway;  a  taxi  was 
magically  waiting  at  the  curb,  and  the  pompous  doorman 
and  Miss  Winton  between  them  left  him  no  choice  but  to 
get  in  immediately. 

"I  feel  a  little  as  if  I  were  being — abducted!"  he  told 
her  with  awestruck  bashfulness  when  their  car  had 
slipped  into  the  traffic-stream  and  was  floating  down 

toward  Times  Square.     "I  was  hoping,  before  we  took  a 

33 


Second    Youth 


taxi,  you'd  let  me — you'd  tell  me  what  theater  you  pre- 
ferred. I'd  love  to  take  you  to  a  theater!" 

"Oh— I  did  mention  the  theater,  didn't  I?"  She 
seemed  momentarily  undecided.  "But  I  thought — it 
just  came  over  me  that  perhaps  we'd  spend  this  first 
evening  better  just  getting  acquainted.  I  don't  think 
people  enjoy  going  to  theaters  and  things  much  together 
until  they  really  get  each  other's  viewpoint — do  you?" 

"I  think  that's  true,"  he  agreed,  giving  his  mind,  or 
at  least  all  of  it  that  wasn't  inebriated  with  joy  by  her 
suggestion  that  their  acquaintance  was  just  beginning,  to 
a  careful  consideration  of  the  problem.  "Yes,  they 
would  enjoy  a  play  better  after  each  had  some  idea  how 
it  was  affecting  the  other." 

"You  really  have  an  amazing  amount  of  insight!"  she 
commented,  as  dispassionately  as  if  he  were  a  third  person 
whom  they  were  discussing.  "Well — so  I  thought,  for 
this  evening,  we  might  just  go  to  one  of  the  private  sitting- 
rooms  in  my  hotel  and  have  a  talk." 

"That  would  be  delightful!"  said  Francis;  and  added, 
after  a  moment's  thought,  "  But  I  didn't  know  you  lived 
in  a  hotel?" 

She  laughed  at  him  again,  a  short,  little  trill  of  amused 
amazement.  "You  know  about  all  you  could  possibly 
know  about  me,  don't  you?"  she  said.  "Well,  I  don't 
live  in  a  hotel  ordinarily.  I  suppose  you  got  that  informa- 
tion from  the  address  I  gave  you  with  that  eventful  first 
order  of  wild  geranium?" 

"Yes — I  took  the  liberty  of  noticing — "  hesitated 
Francis. 

She  asked,  with  slight  tartness,  "And  have  you  still  got 
it?" 

Francis  understood  that  the  idea  of  his  keeping  her 

33 


Second    Youth 


address  in  the  book,  no  less  than  indelibly  printed  on  his 
memory,  was,  for  some  reason,  not  altogether  pleasing  to 
her.  He  tried  to  tell  the  unpleasing  truth,  hesitated,  and 
was  half  lost:  "Of  course  we  clerks  do  not  keep  addresses; 
both  of  the  sales  slips  go  out  of  our  hands  at  once,"  he 
explained. 

"I  thought  you  might  have  kept  mine,  anyway. 
Wouldn't  it  have  shown — devotion?"  she  rallied  him; 
and  yet  he  had  a  distinct  feeling  that  she  was  glad  to 
think  that  he  did  not  have  her  address.  He  tried  to 
understand  why  she  might  feel  that  way  about  it. 

The  taxi  drew  up  before  an  extravagant  Fifth  Avenue 
hotel,  they  alighted,  and  Mr.  Francis  reached  for  his 
pocket-book.  "Come — that's  all  arranged,"  said  Miss 
Winton;  with  gentle  firmness  she  turned  him  around 
by  one  arm  and  steered  him  competently  between 
the  large  palms  at  either  side  of  the  entrance.  He 
caught  glimpses  of  white  marble,  darkly  gleaming  bronze, 
green  shrubs,  mahogany,  plate  glass;  he  caught  the 
cooling,  luxurious  tinkle  of  a  fountain,  and  a  watery 
whiff  from  the  mosses  and  river-plants  edging  it;  then 
they  were  in  a  pearl-lighted  elevator,  soaring  upward 
on  velvet  springs. 

Mr.  Francis's  eyes  fastened  on  the  heavy  gold  band 
around  the  elevator-man's  cap.  The  luxury,  the  sen- 
suousness,  the  display  of  everything  verily  made  him 
afraid,  panicky;  verily,  for  a  moment,  given  but  half 
an  opportunity,  and  he  would  have  run  away  as  fast 
as  his  trembling  legs  could  have  carried  him.  He  was 
overpowered  by  it  all;  there  seemed  a  strange  threat 
in  the  very  atmosphere. 

He  turned  his  eyes  away  from  the  gleaming  gold  band 
on  the  elevator-man's  cap  and  looked  down  at  the  deli- 

34 


Second    Youth 


cately  white,  faintly  coral-tinted  shoulder  of  Miss  Winton, 
half  revealed  by  the  falling  back  of  her  coat;  and  after 
that,  even  though  his  fear  increased  suddenly  until  his 
very  heart  seemed  in  danger  of  stopping,  nothing  would 
have  induced  him  to  run  away. 


Ill 


WITH    SOME    ASSISTANCE,  MR.  FRANCIS    DISCOVERS    AN 
ADJECTIVE 

"XTOW  you  just  sit  down  there  and  make  yourself  at 

±*  home  for  a  few  minutes.  I'm  going  to  my  room 
to  primp  a  bit.  There's  a  magnificent  view  from  that 
window  if  you'll  just  raise  the  curtain." 

"Yes — thank  you,"  said  Francis,  and  was  alone  in  a 
room  that  compared  with  all  the  other  rooms  he  had  ever 
seen  somewhat  as  a  mansion  near  the  Pearly  Gates  might 
have  compared  with  his  own  West  Eleventh  Street 
boarding-house.  The  walls  were  paneled  in  ivory  wood, 
surrounding  oblongs,  shaped  like  great  pier-glasses,  of 
some  coarse  rose-tinted  tissue.  A  bronze  table-lamp  with 
a  shade  like  a  great  yellow  tulip  stood  on  the  dark,  gleam- 
ing little  center-table;  Spanish  leather,  rich  with  its 
blended  variety  of  colors,  a  bit  of  white  marble  statuary, 
a  landscape  in  a  shadow-box,  a  carpet  of  undeniable  silk, 
smote  upon  Mr.  Francis's  disordered  senses. 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair  that  yielded  so  readily  it  startled 
him  into  throwing  out  both  arms. 

"Come,  old  horse — come,  Francis,  old  boy!"  he  cau- 
tioned himself,  in  a  hoarse,  tragic  whisper,  "you  must  get 
hold  of  yourself!"  He  laid  his  hat  carefully  on  the  floor 
beside  him  and  gripped  his  hands  in  his  lap.  "After  all, 

it's  pretty  flashy,"  he  told  himself;    "there's  too  much 

30 


Second    Youth 


color — and  everything  looks  too  hard  and  new,  or  too 
soft  and  ice-creamy." 

He  felt  better  after  this  criticism;  by  his  very  ability 
to  criticize  he  secured  a  most  ancient  and  comfortable 
feeling  of  superiority.  He  had  crossed  one  leg  over  the 
other  and  was  sagging  in  his  chair,  looking  very  casual, 
careless,  intellectual,  and  a  trifle  bored,  when  Miss  Winton 
unexpectedly  opened  the  door  on  him.  His  gold-rimmed 
eye-glasses  and  high  white  forehead  were  of  assistance  to 
him  in  attaining  this  air. 

She  paused,  for  a  moment,  in  the  doorway,  and  a  smile 
of  appreciation  curled  her  lips.  Francis  was  conscious 
that  he  was  being  admired.  His  consciousness  of  it  was 
so  strong  that  he  carefully  preserved  the  attitude  that  had 
roused  her  admiration. 

If  she  noticed  that  he  did  not  pay  her  the  compliment 
of  rising,  Miss  Winton  overlooked  the  matter  completely. 

"Well — you  do  look  at  home!"  she  commented,  and 
rustled  over  to  the  little  center-table  to  put  down  the 
metal  ash-tray  and  cigarette-humidor  that  she  carried. 
"We  can  both  smoke  here,  too,"  she  said,  turning  to  close 
the  door.  "Another  advantage  over  that  noisy  restaurant. 
Have  one?" 

She  opened  the  humidor,  and  Francis  took  his  second 
cigarette  that  evening.  He  was  a  little  disturbed  by  the 
fear  that  it  might  make  him  sick,  but  he  manfully  allowed 
Miss  Winton  to  light  it  for  him.  He  had  had  one  previous 
experience  with  several  cigarettes  in  succession. 

She  lit  one  herself,  blew  a  cloud  of  pale-blue  smoke  in 
his  direction,  and  gave  the  button  of  the  electric  tulip- 
lamp  a  twist  that  lowered  the  light  into  a  dim  golden  glow. 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  she  asked,  with  a  motion  of  her 

cigarette  toward  the  room  in  general. 

37 


Second    Youth 


Some  intuition  made  Francis  suppress  the  cheap  compli- 
ment that  rose  to  his  lips  and  tell  the  exact  truth. 

"The  colors  are  a  little — a  little  exaggerated,  aren't 
they?"  he  said.  "And  don't  you  think  everything  looks 
too  hard  and  new,  or  else  too  soft  and  ice-creamy?" 

"Why — yes — that's  true."  Miss  Winton  seemed  slightly 
overcome,  as  if  at  the  remark  of  an  over-precocious  child. 

Francis  felt  additionally  at  home. 

She  said,  with  a  slow  smile,  after  a  little  silence:  "By 
the  way — I  don't  even  know  your  name!  You  have  the 
advantage  of  me,  sir — as  one  gentleman  might  remark  to 
another." 

Francis  told  her  his  names;  she  seized  upon  the  first 
one. 

"'Roland'!"  she  repeated.  "That's  perfect— I  shall 
call  you  Roland  from  now  on,  if  you  don't  mind.  And 
to  begin  with,  I  shall  tell  you,  Roland — "  She  blew  a 
cloud  of  smoke  toward  the  ceiling  and  looked  at  him  with 
half -amused,  half -supercilious  admiration.  "I  shall  tell 
you  that  you  must  invariably  rise  when  a  lady— a  woman — 
enters  the  room.  It's  done,  you  know — although  there's 
no  reason  for  it.  And  it's  better  to  stick  to  the  small 
conventionalities — especially  if  we're  trying  to  break 
with  the  large  ones.  These  very  advanced  persons  who 
try  to  kick  over  the  whole  apple-cart  at  once — they  fre- 
quently get  it  right  above  their  collars — they  do,  Roland, 
for  a  fact!  If  we  must  advance,  let  us  advance  in  open 
order — a  battalion  at  a  time.  We're  less  likely  to  be 
decimated.  By  the  way,  have  you  ever  had  any  ac- 
quaintance with  advanced  persons?" 

In  the  course  of  this  considerable  lecture  she  seemed 
to  have  lost  sight  of  the  reproof  that  started  it;  Francis 
was  very  glad  that  she  had. 

38 


Second    Youth 


"No — no — I  don't  believe  I  ever  have,"  he  admitted,  a 
little  flushed  and  nervous  because  of  the  lesson  that  had 
just  been  branded  into  his  soul. 

"Then  I  suppose  I've  shocked  you  a  great  deal?" 

"No — no,  you  haven't."  He  was  quite  sure  of  that, 
and  he  was  getting  hold  of  himself  again,  besides.  "You 
have  only  seemed  very — very  remarkable  to  me." 

She  demanded,  nervously  shaking  up  her  silken  drap- 
eries to  cross  her  knees:  "In  what  way  remarkable?  In 
what  way  have  I  seemed  to  you  different  from  other 
women?" 

"You're  a  hundred  times  more  beautiful  than  any 
woman  I  ever  knew,"  said  Francis,  boldly;  "and  more — 
more  cultivated — " 

She  interrupted:  "Those  are  just  compliments!  In 
what  way  did  I  seem  remarkable — you  meant  something 
different  when  you  said  I  seemed  remarkable,  didn't  you?" 

"Why,  yes;  you  seemed  more — more — "  He  groped 
for  words.  "More  free-like — but  that  is  an  awkward 
expression.  I  mean,  you're  self-dependent.  And  then 
you — you  paid  for  things.  I  wish  you  would  have  per- 
mitted—" 

"Why  shouldn't  I  pay  for  things?"  she  demanded,  once 
more  lecturing  him  in  the  way  that  had  made  him  melan- 
choly— and  fierce — in  the  restaurant.  "I  have  money — 
you  have  very  little;  let's  be  frank!  What  earthly  reason 
is  there  that — that  I  shouldn't  beau  you  around  a  little, 
if  we  both  profit  by  it?  I  like  you — you  amuse  me — and 
it  will  undoubtedly  do  you  good  to  be  shaken  up  a  bit, 
to  see  things — to  learn  things !" 

Once  more  she  was  miles  above  him.  For  a  moment  he 
had  a  desire  to  beat  fiercely  up  to  her  level,  to  meet  her 
on  her  own  high  plane,  and  tell  her  flatly  that  he  had  a 


Second    Youth 


right  to  pay  for  her,  no  matter  how  little  money  he  had, 
because  he  was  a  man — yes,  a  man,  even  if  a  department- 
store  silk-clerk — and  she  was  a  woman — even  if  a  beauti- 
ful, cultivated,  and  advanced  one.  But  his  head  worked 
too  rapidly  for  that;  he  had  no  answer  to  the  question 
as  to  why  his  being  a  man  gave  him  the  right  to  pay  for 
her.  Why  would  everything  have  been  all  right  if  she 
were  a  man  and  he  a  woman?  He  sat  looking  at  her; 
a  faint,  sickly  smile  was  on  his  pale  face,  and  all  his 
possible  replies  were  sicklied  over  by  a  thick,  pale  cast  of 
thought. 

"I  would  only  wish  to  give  something  in  return — to 
show  my — " 

"Lord!  you  don't  know  what  a  satisfaction  it  is  to  be 
with  a  man  who  doesn't  feel  it  necessary  to  express  his 
everlasting  superiority  in  that  way,"  she  interrupted. 
"You  can  show  appreciation  enough  without  that!" 

"Then  I'm  glad  that  I  am — as  I  am,"  he  said,  and  his 
thick  brown  eyelashes  drooped  over  his  hazel  eyes.  He 
adored  her  too  much;  he  was  ashamed  to  leave  his  eyes 
on  hers,  his  secret  bare  to  her  clear,  gray-blue,  slightly 
scornful,  slightly  admiring  gaze. 

But  even  though  his  eyes  were  cast  down,  the  vision  of 
her  loveliness  was  behind  his  eyelids.  The  coral-touched 
whiteness  of  her  arms  and  shoulders,  the  rich,  deep  red  of 
her  mouth,  the  pure  outline  and  delicate  texture  of  her  face, 
the  very  perfection  of  her  defense  against  time,  the  slight 
artificiality  of  her  beauty  that  had  remained  unmarred  by 
perhaps  thirty  years  of  life,  appealed  to  him  as  the  robust 
naturalness  of  girlhood  could  not  have  appealed.  His 
aesthetics  had  been  learned  from  the  silks,  most  artificial 
of  fabrics,  and  from  the  women  who  came  to  buy  them. 

"You're  perfectly  crazy  to  make  love  to  me,  Roland!" 

40 


Second    Youth 


Her  voice  was  lazy  and  alert,  incongruously  dispassionate 
and  thrilling  with  passion.  "Well — why  don't  you? 
I'm  sure  I've  given  you  all  the  encouragement  a  woman 
could — without  throwing  herself  in  your  arms!" 

Mr.  Francis  was  saved  from  a  fainting-fit  by  his  in- 
ability to  believe  his  ears;  he  lifted  his  eyes  for  one  quick 
utterly  dumfounded  glance.  A  red  flush  spread  over  his 
face,  enveloped  it  like  the  face  of  a  sixteen-year-old  girl. 
He  was  powerless  to  move  or  to  say  a  word. 

Quietly,  with  a  soft  rustle  of  silks,  Miss  Winton  rose, 
took  two  steps  and  seated  herself  on  the  broad  arm  of  his 
chair.  While  she  puffed  at  her  cigarette,  short  little 
staccato  puffs  above  which  her  eyes  were  narrowed  against 
the  smoke,  she  let  one  long  arm  slip  down  the  Spanish- 
leather  back  of  the  chair  around  his  neck. 

He  shuddered,  as  if  the  arm  had  been  a  snake.  There 
was  something  terrifying  about  it :  in  spite  of  the  ecstasy 
that  began  slowly  to  crowd  back  his  dumfounded  dis- 
belief, there  was  something  terrifying  about  it.  She  was 
close  to  him,  she,  something  lower,  but  not  much  lower, 
than  the  angels;  the  pale-blue  silkenness,  and  delicate, 
coral-touched  whiteness  and  faint  fragrance  of  all  of  her — 
fragrance  of  the  silks  that  he  loved,  fragrance  of  some 
vague  perfume,  and  another  fragrance  that  might  have 
been  distilled  in  her  as  in  a  lily — seemed  all  about  him. 
He  sat  with  his  hands  lying  loose  and  palsied  on  his 
knees,  his  eyes  downcast,  his  breath  and  heart  almost 
stopped;  no  Laocoon  in  the  first  grip  of  a  python  could 
have  been  more  paralyzed  than  he. 

Miss  Winton,  after  a  moment  of  it,  arose  and  strolled 
back  to  her  own  chair.  With  her  white  cigarette  up- 
tilted  in  one  corner  of  her  mouth  she  put  both  her  hands 

upon  the  back  of  the  chair  behind  her  shoulders,  and  sat 

4  41 


Second    Youth 


staring  at  him  from  between  the  white  barriers  of  her 
upper  arms.  Except  for  a  slight  flush  in  either  cheek, 
she  was  quite  calm,  clear-eyedly  observant  of  the  effect 
she  had  produced. 

"Forgive  me  for  teasing  you  a  little,  won't  you?"  she 
begged,  with  a  sudden  smile.  "Even  very  advanced 
women  sometimes  do  that,  you  know!" 

"I — yes — of  course —  Excuse  me,"  stammered  Fran- 
cis. He  stretched  his  long  neck,  swallowed  hard,  like  a 
rooster  that  has  been  picking  up  corn  faster  than  it  can 
swallow,  and  was  comparatively  calm.  "  I — I — of  course 
I  would  have  understood — if  you — "  He  choked  slightly; 
he  was  trying  to  meet  her  smile  with  another,  but  he  was 
not  yet  in  a  smiling  mood.  "If  it  hadn't  been  so — so 
important  to  me — if  I  hadn't  liked  you  so  much —  It 
was  like  heaven  when  you  sat  down  there — and  a  little 
like  the  other  place,  too!"  he  finished,  so  solemn  with 
the  splendor  of  his  apocalypse  that  he  was  as  candid  as  a 
child. 

"  I  don't  believe — "  She  paused,  and  turned  the  state- 
ment into  a  question.  "Have  you  ever  loved  a  woman?" 

Mr.  Francis's  eyes,  that  had  been  uplifted  for  a  mo- 
ment, fell  again.  "Yes,"  he  admitted,  in  a  voice  little 
above  a  whisper.  "  I  love  you !" 

"I  didn't  mean — just  that."  She  was  so  candidly  in- 
terested in  his  condition  that  she  had  no  apparent  pity 
for  him.  "Have  you  never  loved  a  woman  more  than  you 
love  me?  I  mean,  have  you  never  made  love  to  a  woman 
— kissed  her — ?" 

"Once — when  I  was  eighteen  years  old,"  admitted  Mr. 
Frances,  still  in  the  same  whispering  undertone.  "I — 
I  kissed  her  several  times — three  times — on  the  cheek — 
one  evening — out  on  the  front  steps  of  the  apartment 

42 


Second    Youth 


where  I  lived.  It  was  in  Brooklyn.  I — I  have  always 
been  sorry;  I  knew  then  I  could  probably  not  marry 
her." 

Miss  Winton  rose  from  her  chair,  carefully  lighted  a 
fresh  cigarette  from  the  tip  of  her  old  one,  and  stood 
looking  down  at  the  tulip-lamp.  Mr.  Francis  dared  to 
lift  his  eyes,  to  look  at  her,  dog-like,  hopelessly,  from  a 
long  distance. 

She  took  no  notice  of  him  whatever;  her  eyes  left  the 
lamp  after  a  moment  or  so,  and  looked  straight  through 
the  rose-colored  panel  on  the  opposite  wall.  In  a  low 
voice,  but  distinctly  enough  so  that  the  words  remained 
an  enduring  enigma  to  Mr.  Francis,  she  said: 

"I  don't  see  how  men  can  do  it!" 

Her  eyes  returned  to  Mr.  Francis.  There  was  a  new 
light  in  them,  a  tired,  scornful  light,  unrelieved  by  any 
of  the  admiration  and  amusement  to  which  he  had  grown 
accustomed. 

"It  was  an  experiment — the  whole  thing,  Roland,"  she 
told  him.  There  was  slight  scorn  even  in  her  way  of 
speaking  his  name.  "I  wanted  to  see  just  what  would 
happen  if  a  woman — if  a  woman  did  what  I've  done. 
These  advanced  women,  you  know,  have  to  experiment! 
I  hope  it  hasn't  done  you  any  harm — and  that  you  won't 
mind  if  we  call  the  experiment  finished — and  that  you'll 
not  think  it  unsociable  of  me  if  I  ask  you  to  go  now. 
You  see,  I'm  really  thinking  of  you  more  than  I  am  of 
myself.  I  hope  you'll  appreciate  that  later  on.  You're 
not  much  hurt,  I  think;  of  course  you're  not  in  love  with 
me  in  any  true  sense  of  the  word — " 

"Please — I  know  that  I  am!"  interjected  Mr.  Francis 
in  a  stifling  undertone. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it — no  more  than  I  am  with  you — per- 


Second    Youth 


haps  not  half  as  much!"  she  shot  out,  almost  savagely. 
"So  just  forget  it,  please — forget  it  and  forget  me! 
And  now — please  take  your  hat  and  go!" 

Mr.  Francis  bent  down  to  get  his  hat,  sending  an  ad- 
ditional rush  of  blood  into  his  face,  arose,  and  shuffled 
toward  the  door.  He  had  the  general  appearance  of  a 
man  being  slowly  tortured  to  death  in  a  dream. 

Miss  Winton  slipped  to  the  door  before  him.  "Please 
say  first  that  you  forgive  me!"  she  demanded;  her  face 
was  suddenly  almost  as  much  flushed  as  his  own.  The 
sight  of  it,  of  the  flutter  of  nervousness  in  which  the  re- 
quest was  spoken,  improved  Francis  wonderfully. 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  he  said.  "Instead,  I 
have  much  to  thank  you  for — more  than  I  can  say." 

For  a  moment,  with  slightly  parted  lips,  she  hesitated. 

"Oh — I  love  you — love  you!"  burst  from  Francis. 
"Why — I  would  work —  I  can  rise — but  of  course  you 
couldn't — marry  me!" 

He  made  no  motion  even  to  take  her  hand;  he  merely 
looked  at  her  as  one  might  look  at  some  virgin  out  of  the 
calendar.  She  swayed  toward  him,  swayed  back,  broke 
into  sudden  short  laughter. 

"It  was  an  experiment— and  it  failed — don't  you 
understand?"  she  cried.  "Go  now — go  quick!  Go — go 
along!  And  don't  you  dare  ever  mention  my  name  to 
any  one — don't  you  dare  ever  think  of  me  again!"  She 
got  the  door  open  with  one  hysterical  pull  and  pushed  him 
into  the  corridor.  "I  hope  we  part  in  mutual  respect — 
and  in  case  you  should  ever  need  a  friend  in  any  trouble 
I  hope  you  will  think  of  me!"  she  shot  into  Mr.  Francis's 
dazed  face.  "There — I  believe  that's  the  usual  farewell 
in  such  situations!  Isn't  it,  Roland?" 

The  door  slammed  shut;   inside  he  thought  he  hearci 


Second    Youth 


her  laughing;  a  matron  in  a  white-and-black  uniform, 
sitting  in  a  rocking-chair  near  the  elevators,  stared  at  him 
as  he  turned  to  grope  his  way  out. 


Along  toward  five  o'clock  the  escarped  horizon  east  of 
Madison  Square  began  to  suggest  morning.  Half  an  hour 
later  Mr.  Francis  became  convinced  that  he  was  sitting 
on  a  park  bench  on  the  west  side  of  that  particular  city 
breathing-space.  He  had  suspected  it  from  time  to  time 
during  the  course  of  the  night,  but  he  had  not  taken  the 
trouble  to  make  sure. 

The  greens,  all  those  vivid  variations  of  green  that  pre- 
sage spring  dawns  in  the  city,  had  come.  Just  above  the 
tops  of  the  lower  buildings  was  a  light,  shimmering  color 
like  that  on  unopened  hickory  buds,  or  on  Mr.  Francis's 
new  oyster  vest.  As  high  as  the  poised  Diana  on  the  top 
of  Madison  Square  Garden  was  a  band  of  deep,  rich, 
opalescent  green.  Where  the  slender  golden  tip  of  the 
Metropolitan  tower  lost  itself  in  air,  seven  hundred  feet 
above  the  pavement,  was  a  wide  fringe  of  peacock  blue. 
And  far  down,  where  East  Twenty-fourth  Street  opened 
a  panel  of  sky  into  the  heart  of  the  East  Side,  a  livid 
purplish  green  brooded  like  some  miasmatic  scum  on  a 
swamp. 

It  was  an  interesting  and  suggestive  color  combination; 
it  helped  Mr.  Francis  to  lift  himself  out  of  the  attitude  of 
an  umbilical-starer  which  he  had  preserved  during  the 
night.  At  times  he  had  imagined  that  he  was  thinking. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  not  been  thinking,  he  had  not 
thought  a  single  thought.  He  had  merely  concentrated 
himself  on  himself,  precisely  in  the  manner  of  those 

Hindoo  seekers  for  Nirvana  whom  his  attitude  and  ex- 

45 


S  ccojid    Youth 


pression  made  him  so  much  resemble,  and  allowed  the 
world  to  slip  by. 

He  noticed  the  various  nondescripts,  gray  objects,  some 
partly  covered  with  newspapers,  crouching,  sprawling, 
and  nodding  on  the  benches  around  him. 

"They  have  to  stay  here  every  night,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, expressing  the  first  clear  idea  he  had  had  since  some 
little  time  before  Miss  Winton  shut  him  out  into  the 
corridor.  "Poor  devils — some  of  them  women,  too!"  he 
muttered,  rising  to  the  height  of  having  two  thoughts 
almost  simultaneously. 

A  wave  of  pity,  rising  in  his  shattered  and  shaken  soul, 
rose,  swept  over  him.  Out  of  his  own  misery  he  pitied 
them,  sympathized  with  them;  he  was  akin  to  them,  of 
one  blood-brotherhood  with  all  their  sorrows.  His  eyes 
filled,  his  hand  went  into  his  pocket. 

He  drew  out  his  bill-fold  and  opened  it;  the  thirty-five 
dollars  he  had  drawn  out  on  the  previous  afternoon  was 
there,  untouched,  virginal,  crisp,  green.  Choking  and 
blinking  for  the  moisture  in  his  eyes  and  the  ache  in  his 
throat,  he  walked  along  the  row  of  derelicts,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Fatiron  Building.  Into  the  midst  of  a  black- 
bonneted  shapeless  old  bunch  of  rags  and  gray  hair  and 
parchment  skin  that  had  once  been  a  woman  he  thrust 
a  five-dollar  bill.  He  hurried  on,  the  tears  now  frankly 
trickling  down  his  nose;  another  old  wreck  of  a  woman, 
another  five-dollar  bill.  It  was  simple :  he  thrust  the  bill 
against  them,  and  at  once  a  gray  accipitrine  claw  of  a  hand 
reached  out  to  clutch  it.  Still  another  old  woman,  a  very 
fat  one  this  time,  bleary,  bulbous-faced,  smelling  vilely 
of  a  concentration  of  neglect  and  filth.  "  God  bless  you !" 
choked  Mr.  Francis,  and  gave  her  a  ten. 

Murmurings  arose  behind  him.    In  spite  of  the  torpor 


Second    Youth 


induced  by  a  chilly  night  under  the  sky,  the  suspicion  of 
money  had  roused  the  park  people  as  the  scent  of  blood 
might  rouse  half-dead  wolves.  He  heard  the  shuffle  of 
feet  along  the  sidewalk;  they  were  upon  his  track,  growl- 
ing, yapping  after  him.  Another  nodding  gray  heap  that 
looked  like  another  old  woman,  and  he  thrust  the  last 
ten  into  the  middle  of  it;  nor  was  he  regretful  when  the 
gray  heap  proved  to  be  a  withered  little  wisp  of  a  man  in  a 
woman's  shawl.  A  one-legged  man,  hearing  the  bruit  be- 
hind Mr.  Francis,  stepped  out  to  bar  his  progress;  Mr. 
Francis  thrust  bill-fold  and  the  remaining  five  into  the 
one-legged  man's  clutching  hands. 

"God  bless  them! — God  bless  them! "he  sobbed, weeping 
so  that  he  could  not  see,  staggering  at  a  dog-trot  across 
the  network  of  street-car  tracks  to  the  Flatiron.  He  ran 
a  little  way  down  Fifth  Avenue  and  then  settled  back  to  a 
walk,  dismissing  the  terror  that  he  had  felt  for  a  moment 
when  he  heard  the  sounds  of  pursuit.  He  was  quite  safe; 
the  denizens  of  the  park  could  no  longer  run. 

Down  the  Avenue,  with  half  an  eye  for  appreciation  of 
the  purplish  electric  street-arcs  on  their  curved  stems, 
he  strolled,  and  felt  much  better.  He  even  told  himself, 
after  he  had  blown  his  nose  vigorously  several  times,  that 
he  had  done  a  foolish  thing,  that  his  poor  little  thirty- 
five  dollars  could  do  no  good  among  that  multitude.  He 
wondered  whether  they  were  fighting  over  the  spoils 
back  there,  and  whether  a  policeman  might  not  interfere, 
arrest  a  few  of  them,  and  pocket  all  the  proceeds  he  could 
collect. 

"It  is  a  very  difficult  matter  to  aid  the  real  down-and- 
outers,"  Mr.  Francis  told  himself,  gravely  producing  an- 
other idea.  "Perhaps  euthanasia  is  the  only  solution  for 
their  troubles." 

47 


Second    Youth 


An  all-night  dairy  lunch  lured  him  with  an  aroma  of 
hot  coffee.  He  had  a  cup,  and  a  Western  sandwich,  and 
then  another  of  both;  they  gave  him  philosophy,  even  a 
faint  return  of  his  sense  of  humor.  At  least  it  seemed 
humorous  to  him  that  he  had  only  twenty-two  cents  in 
his  pocket  and  couldn't  afford  anything  more  to  eat. 

There  was  something  faintly  humorous,  also,  in  the 
delirious  joy  with  which  he  had  drawn  that  everlastingly 
vanished  thirty-five  dollars,  two  whole  weeks'  salary,  and 
a  dollar  and  a  half  more,  on  the  preceding  afternoon. 

In  some  ways  he  had  perhaps  taken  things  too  seriously. 

He  took  the  book  out  of  his  pocket  to  refresh  himself 
on  his  recent  emotions,  and  thoughtfully  read  the  entries 
that  had  to  do  with  Miss  Winton.  In  due  course  he  came 
to  the  last  one,  the  one  of  the  afternoon  before,  in  which 
he  had  left  a  blank. 

After  he  had  considered  the  matter  awhile  in  the  light 
of  his  more  recent  experiences,  he  removed  his  fountain- 
pen  from  its  clip  in  his  inside  coat  pocket,  gave  it  a  couple 
of  vigorous  shakes,  and  wrote  a  bold  "advanced"  in  the 
space  he  had  left  vacant. 

Several  times  he  read  over  the  now  completed  entry: 

"Friday,  March  24th.  To-day  has  been  full  of  very 
advanced  events" 

It  fulfilled  the  requirements.  He  had  found  his  ad- 
jective, and  he  was  not  above  a  little  pride  in  the  ability 
that  had  enabled  him  to  find  it. 


IV 

RECONSTRUCTION,    PROMOTION — AND   A    NEW   ROMANCE 


o 


N  Sunday,  March  26th,  after  some  careful  operations 
with  an  ink-eraser,  Mr.  Francis  wrote  in  the  book: 


I  have  removed  her  name  and  address,  which  I  had  put 
in  under  the  entry  of  March  13th.  In  some  ways  that 
was  an  unlucky  date.  And  yet  I  will  not  repine. 

I  did  not  return  home  until  late  last  night.  It  was  my 
sideburns,  for  one  thing,  and  I  did  not  feel  like  facing 
the  other  boarders  at  dinner,  anyway.  This  morning  at 
breakfast  it  was  not  so  bad,  although  I  was  naturally 
noticed  somewhat. 

Whiggam  said,  He's  been  away  two  days  and  comes 
back  with  a  lot  of  hair  missing;  looks  bad.  But  Mrs. 
Benson  took  my  part.  She  said  I  looked  much  better 
without  them;  younger. 

I  fear,  in  erasing  Miss  Winton's  address,  I  have  only 
stamped  it  the  more  indelibly  on  my  memory.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  forget  it.  And  yet  I  can  say  that  I 
know  all  that  is  passed,  that  I  shall  not  even  think  of  her 
any  more. 

Yesterday  afternoon  Mr.  Remmick  said  to  me:  Are 
you  well,  Mr.  Francis?  You  look  pale.  I  said  I  was 
perfectly  well.  Then  he  said:  That's  good.  We  ca,n't 


Second    Youth 


have  you  getting  run  down  just  now.     I'll  probably  have 
something  interesting  to  tell  you  next  Monday. 

I  think  I  know  what  he  means,  and  I  suppose  once  I 
would  have  thrilled  at  the  thought  of  being  assistant 
silk-buyer  for  McDavitt's;  now  it  does  not  stir  me  a 
great  deal.  Nevertheless,  of  course  I  shall  be  glad — yes, 
on  the  whole,  it  will  be  a  fine  thing.  Still,  I  must  not  be 
too  optimistic;  he  might  mean  something  entirely  different. 
I  have,  perhaps,  tended  to  be  too  optimistic  of  recent 
date. 


On  Monday,  March  27th,  Mr.  Francis  wrote  in  the 
book: 


I  was  right.  To-day,  on  account  of  the  continued  illness 
of  Mr.  Prince,  for  which  I  have  the  most  sincere  regret, 
Mr.  Remmick  told  me  I  had  been  appointed  to  be  his 
assistant.  Mr.  Remmick  said  he  knew  I  should  fill  the 
position  well;  he  had  been  noticing  me  for  some  time. 

I  was  also  right  in  expecting  they  would  make  up  for 
my  long  wait;  they  have  been  liberal.  Fifteen  hundred  a 
year,  thirty  dollars  a  week.  Once  I  looked  forward  to 
20  per  wk.  like  millions,  now  thirty  does  not  seem  so 
much.  I  must  be  getting  old  and  soured. 

It  will  help  me  to  lay  up  a  competence  for  my  declining 
years.  Perhaps  I  should  offer  to  send  one  of  my  Brooklyn 
cousins  to  college.  I  have  always  regretted  that  I  en- 
tered on  an  active  business  career  before  completing  my 
education.  I  fear  the  Manual  Training  Course,  excellent 
though  it  was,  was  in  some  degree  wasted  on  me  because 
of  my  unfitness. 

I  suppose  she  will  never  be  in  again.     It  is,  in  a  way. 

50 


Second    Youth 


remarkable  that  so  up-to-date  a  person  as  she  came  the 
first  time.  McDavitt's  stock  is  not  entirely  up  to  date. 
Perhaps  I  can  do  something  along  this  line,  now  that  I 
am  in  a  position  of  authority,  but  not  much,  I  fear. 
McDavitt's  policies  are  like  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and 
Persians,  which  is,  perhaps,  unfortunate.  The  store  that 
does  not  change  and  grow  is  perhaps  most  unfortunate, 
just  as  the  man  is.  Her  nose  was  particularly  beautiful; 
there  was  something  high-strung  about  it,  very  sensitive 
and  fine.  It  was  perhaps  a  little  like  the  beak  of  an 
eagle,  proud. 

On  Friday,  March  31st,  he  wrote: 

I  am  reading  Pragmatism,  a  work  on  philosophy  recom- 
mended to  me  by  the  girl  at  the  public  library  branch. 
It  is  very  edifying;  there  is  little  that  I  do  not  understand. 
I  am  also  reading  a  little  in  a  work  on  psychology  by  the 
same  author,  which  the  girl  said  I  ought  to  read  along  with 
the  Pragmatism.  I  do  not  understand  this  nearly  so  well 
but  I  give  it  my  best  thought.  A  man  can  easily  become 
narrow  by  being  absorbed  into  his  business,  and  now  that 
my  business  has  become  more  interesting  I  shall  take  more 
care  than  before  not  to  become  absorbed.  I  would  say 
Mrs.  Twombly  has  a  very  low  impression-threshold,  if  I 
understand  rightly  what  James  means  by  that  expression. 

I  am  also  reading  the  Best  Foreign  Poetry  Translated 
into  English  Verse  which  I  got  at  the  library.  I  imagine 
many  of  the  selections  may  be  better  in  the  original; 
as  English  poetry  it  does  not  stand  very  high,  according 
to  my  judgment.  However,  some  is  good.  I  liked  these 

lines  especially: 

51 


Second    Youth 


His  heart  is  a  suspended  lute: 

Let  one  but  touch  it,  and  it  sounds. 

— BEKANGER. 

The  music  of  a  lute  must  have  been  a  pleasant  sound. 
I  went  to  a  Sunday-evening  concert  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  once  last  winter.  Enjoyed  it  greatly.  Per- 
haps, now  I  am  earning  so  much  money,  I  will  take  in 
some  of  the  affairs  at  Carnegie  Hall;  there  are  things  there 
all  summer. 

On  the  whole,  I  may  say  I  am  glad  that  what  has 
happened  has  happened.  She  gave  me  an  impetus  to 
read  along  lines  that  have  done  me  much  good,  also  a 
feeling  I  shall  not  soon  forget.  I  have  seldom  felt  my 
unworthiness  so  much,  and  the  desire  to  improve  myself. 
Now  that  I  have  more  time  and  money,  I  will  see  that  I 
improve  myself  by  reading  more  and  seeing  more  things. 
My  new  work  is  astonishingly  easy;  I  had  long  done  most 
of  it,  as  well  as  my  own,  during  Mr.  Prince's  illness. 
While  there  is  life  there  is  hope.  Cheer  up,  Frances,  old 
horse — the  game  is  never  ended  until  the  candles  are 
burned  out! 

The  boarders  congratulated  me  warmly  on  my  advance- 
ment. The  good  news  came  to  me  almost  a  week  ago, 
and  I  thought  it  would  not  seem  boastful  if  I  allowed  it 
to  become  known  to-day.  So  I  told  Whiggam.  We  were 
playing  pinochle,  and  he  said  he'd  forgotten  to  get  any 
cigars,  and  he  missed  his  smoke.  I  said,  Let  me  send 
Harry  Benson  out  for  some  if  we  can  get  hold  of  him; 
my  treat;  I've  had  a  bit  of  luck  down  at  the  store. 

Whiggam  slapped  me  on  the  back  several  times  and 
called  Mrs.  Benson  in  to  tell  her,  and  they  said  I'd  have 

to  send  out  for  a  duck  of  beer  as  well  as  the  cigars,  which 

52 


Second    Youth 


of  course  I  was  very  glad  to  do,  although  I  do  not  care 
nearly  as  much  for  beer  as  for  some  other  things. 

Mrs.  Benson  congratulated  me  especially  warmly 
twice.  Once  after  Whiggam  told  her  and  once  when 
she  met  me  accidentally  on  the  stairs  as  I  was  going  up 
to  my  room  to  retire. 

She  has  been  very  thoughtful  of  my  comforts  for  the 
last  seven  years  going  on  eight.  She  mentioned  how  she 
had  always  tried  to,  and  I  thanked  her  warmly. 

She  said  she  hoped  I  would  not  now  feel  impelled  to 
move  into  a  more  fashionable  neighborhood,  and  I  as- 
sured her  I  had  no  intention  to.  I  despise  a  man  who  is 
puffed  up  by  a  little  worldly  success.  Vanitas  vanitatis. 
Or  should  it  be  vanitatium?  I  wish  I  remembered  more  of 
my  Latin;  I  had  two  years,  but  my  memory  is  far  from 
being  what  I  wish  it  were.  Mrs.  B.  also  said  she  had  two 
tickets  for  the  Empire  Vaudeville  given  her  by  the  couple 
in  the  back  parlor. 

They  are  in  the  theatrical  profession  and  are  getting  a 
try-out  there  this  week.  I  could  not  well  refuse  her  in- 
vitation to  accompany  her,  even  though  I  do  not  care  for 
moving  pictures  and  vaudeville  any  more  than  I  care  for 
the  beer  I  drank  to-night  to  be  sociable.  She  says  she 
goes  at  least  twice  a  week;  it  brightens  her  dull  life.  Poor 
soul!  I  guess  she  needs  it.  Hers  is  not  a  very  gay  life. 


During  the  years  through  which  Mr.  Francis  had  oc- 
cupied Mrs.  Benson's  second-most-expensive  room,  the 
second-floor  front,  his  real  intimacy  with  her  had  con- 
sisted of  one  conversation  in  the  week  following  Mr. 
Benson's  decease.  Mr.  Benson,  who  had  been  indefinitely 
"in  the  clothing  business,"  had  caught  a  coJ4  which  de- 
ft 


Second    Y outh 


veloped  into  pneumonia,  with  fatal  results.  While  she 
wept  on  Mr.  Francis's  shoulder,  one  evening  several  days 
after  the  funeral,  Mrs.  Benson  had  said  that  she  wished 
never  to  speak  to  another  man,  never  even  to  see  one, 
except  in  the  necessary  course  of  business.  She  ran  a 
boarding-house  and  she  was  obliged  to  accept  men  as 
well  as  women  boarders;  other  relations  with  them  she 
could  not  for  one  moment  consider. 

Mr.  Francis  had  always  respected  her  wishes.  Even 
when  she  presided  at  the  Sunday-evening  dinner-table, 
a  wide,  tight  vision  of  black  silk,  and  conversation  was 
supposed  to  be  less  restricted  than  on  week  days,  he  had 
been  careful  not  to  trespass  on  the  sacred  confines  of  her 
bereavement.  Her  conversation  with  the  other  men  at 
the  table,  in  which  she  attempted  to  include  him,  he 
passed  off  as  her  necessary  sacrifice  to  the  business  that 
supported  her  widowhood.  He  avoided  her  even  to  the 
extent  of  leaving  his  weekly  rent  in  the  hollow  back  of  a 
china  duck  on  his  dresser.  In  his  eyes  she  was  a  living 
sacrifice  to  a  dead  and  buried  past,  and  he  never  even 
passed  her  in  the  hall  without  respectfully  bending  his 
head  and  looking  at  the  carpet. 

On  Tuesday,  April  4th,  Mr.  Francis  wrote  in  the  book : 

This  evening  after  dinner  Mrs.  Benson  asked  me  to 
join  Whiggam  and  Carryl  and  her  in  a  game  of  whist. 
She  asked  me  to  be  her  partner,  which  I  did.  I  was  very 
much  surprised.  Perhaps  her  attitude  toward  men  is 
changing.  I  am  glad  if  this  is  the  case.  It  does  not  pay 
to  be  tied  too  closely  to  past  misfortunes. 

I  thought  for,  a  moment,  she  was  in  again  to-day.    She 

54 


Second    Youth 


was  three  aisles  away,  looking  over  that  new  importation 
of  Chinese  Mandarins.  And  then  I  saw  it  was  not  she, 
nor  did  it  look  much  like  her;  I  do  not  know  why  I  made 
the  mistake.  Several  times  before  I  have  thought  I 
saw  her  along  the  aisles.  I  always  seem  to  be  mistaking 
some  one  for  her,  but  never  so  badly  as  to-day.  If  only  a 
customer  is  tall  and  beautiful  and  distinguished,  I  think 
it  is  she.  I  seem  to  be  always  looking  for  her.  Of  course 
she  will  never  return  after  what  has  happened.  I  must 
break  myself  of  this. 

I  have  been  hopelessly  moonstruck  so  often  that  it 
should  be  beaten  into  my  head  how  hopeless  it  is.  Though, 
of  course,  never  so  much  as  this  last  time.  There  are 
some  men  whom  Fate  denies  these  things  to,  and  I  am 
one  of  them.  I  have  long  since  given  up  the  idea  that  I 
shall  ever  win  a  woman's  love  and  experience  the  joys  of 
wedded  bliss. 

To  be  much  of  my  time  in  the  office  and  receiving-room, 
as  I  am  now  forced  to  be  by  my  new  position,  has  draw- 
backs. But,  of  course,  even  if  I  were  in  my  old  place, 
I  should  never  see  her  again. 

I  remember  those  two  little  up-and-down  lines  at  the 
top  of  her  nose  between  her  eyebrows  whenever  she  be- 
came very  serious.  And  yet  she  is  not  old;  far  from  it. 
One  would  not  call  her  young,  either,  and  certainly  not 
middle-aged.  She  gives  me  a  feeling  of  great  wonder. 
I  sometimes  felt  that  she  was  very  discontented,  but 
perhaps  it  was  merely  that  she  was  so  advanced.  I  asked 
the  librarian  for  a  book  about  advanced  women,  and  she 
gave  me  one  called  What  Women  Want,  but  it  says  they 
want  to  get  out  of  the  kitchen  principally,  which  cer- 
tainly does  not  apply  to  her;  she  is  not  troubled  by 

having  to  be  much  in  a  kitchen,  I  fancy.     It  gives  me 

55 


Second    Youth 


a  feeling  of  satisfaction  to  feel  that  she  is  perhaps  not 
altogether  happy. 

But  of  course  I  am  probably  altogether  wrong.  What 
could  she  desire  that  she  has  not  got? 

Still,  even  if  I  had  plenty  of  money  and  fine  books  and 
paintings,  and  a  limousine,  I  might  still  feel  a  lack  in  my 
life.  In  fact,  I  know  I  should  still  feel  a  lack.  Life  is,  in 
many  ways,  weird. 

I  always  thought  this  position  would  make  me  happy, 
but  now  I  have  it  and  I  am  more  discontented  than  ever. 
There  is  perhaps  no  complete  happiness,  which  I  will 
comprehend  better  as  I  read  more  about  philosophy. 
Wm.  James  is  very  interesting. 

Some  years  ago  I  read  a  novel  by  H.  G.  Wells,  Tono 
Bungay,  which  I  did  not  like,  but  it  held  me  to  the  end. 
He  says  life  is  an  awful  muddle,  nothing  but  an  awful 
muddle,  and  the  hero  ends  up  by  building  torpedo-boat 
destroyers  after  he  has  been  disappointed  in  love.  This 
is  perhaps  symbolical.  I  remember  one  thing  cut  into  me 
like  a  knife.  He  says,  "And  now  I  build  destroyers." 
I  think  he  means  that  he  wants  to  destroy  everything, 
all  the  frightful  muddle. 

And  yet  there  must  be  something  somewhere  just  in 
things  as  they  now  are  that  is  good  enough.  I  have  always 
felt  that  there  must  be  something  ahead,  if  I  could  only 
find  it,  that  would  make  me  glad  I  had  been  born.  I 
think  I  would  have  shot  myself  like  my  father  if  I  had 
not  felt  this,  but  I  said,  Oh,  come,  Francis,  old  horse, 
there  are  always  two  sides  to  everything,  if  not  a  lot  more. 
There  are  the  dirty  little  worms  that  it  gave  her  creeps 
to  think  about,  but  there  is  also  the  silk,  and  silk  from 
worms  is  more  beautiful  than  the  fabrics  that  come  from 

flowers.     If  we're  going  to  have  silk,  we  must  stand  for 

56 


Second    Youth 


the  worms,  I  suppose,  and  I  would  advise  Mr.  Wells  to 
go  slow  how  he  gets  his  destroyers  to  shooting  all  the 
worms  to  pieces. 

From  the  library  to-day  I  got  a  book,  Selections  from  the 
English  Poets  of  the  XlXth  Century.  It  is  more  com- 
plete than  the  Golden  Treasury,  Parts  I  and  II,  and  I 
anticipate  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  and  profit  from  it. 
I  wonder  if  she  spends  a  great  deal  of  her  leisure  time 
reading  poetry;  but  of  course  she  does. 


Under  the  entry  of  Friday,  April  7th,  he  copied  most  of 
Shelley's  "Indian  Serenade,"  underlining — 

1  awake  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night 

When  the  winds  are  breathing  low 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright. 

The  somewhat  hectic  last  stanza  he  omitted  on  the 
ground  that  it  was  "vulgar."  Love,  in  his  eyes,  did  not 
include  any  such  intimate  matters  as  Shelley  permitted 
himself  to  hint  at  therein.  He  was  even  a  bit  doubtful 
about  the  admission  of 

A  spirit  in  my  feet 

Has  led  me — who  knows  how? 
To  thy  chamber  window,  sweet! 

And  yet,  without  understanding  it,  or  admitting  it  to 
himself,  Mr.  Francis  was  beginning  to  be  really  in  love 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  His  preceding  emotions, 
roused  by  Miss  Winton  and  a  long  line  of  others  in  less 
degree,  had  not  penetrated  the  fibers  of  his  being,  had 
5  57 


Second    Youth 


not  reached  the  broad  physical  basis  in  which  a  real  love 
sets  its  roots. 

He  had  loved  in  a  spiritual  way;  he  had  cherished 
flowers  of  romance  that  sprang  up  in  him  like  those 
magical  flowers  grown  in  a  few  minutes  by  Eastern 
conjurers — and  like  them,  also,  in  having  an  amazing 
absence  of  roots.  As  with  most  suppressed,  thoughtful, 
sensitive  men,  the  need  for  a  complete  love  had  been 
slow  to  arise  in  him:  even  though  the  spiritual  need,  the 
need  for  a  love  that  is  half  friendship,  half  religious  de- 
votion, had  begun  to  show  itself  in  adoring  glances 
at  pretty  little  girls  by  the  tune  he  was  ten  years 
old. 

In  his  eighteenth  year  he  had  wept  with  joy  because  a 
young  person  of  the  opposite  sex,  who  lived  in  the  flat 
directly  beneath  his  Brooklyn  uncle's,  had  let  him  hold 
her  hand  one  evening  and  print  a  few  chaste  kisses  on  her 
cheek  while  they  sat  on  the  front  steps  of  the  apartment- 
house.  He  had  thought  the  permission  meant  something 
vital  and  terrible,  and  he  had  stammered  wild  things  to 
her  that  had  made  her  laugh  and  denominate  him  a 
"green  one."  His  disillusion  had  been  completed  by 
seeing  her  kiss  the  grocer's  boy,  less  than  a  week  later,  in 
the  doorway  of  her  apartment. 

The  experience  had  given  him  a  violent  revulsion  against 
love,  so-called,  and  his  suppressing  environment  had 
helped  to  keep  the  physical  part  of  love  dormant  within 
him.  Given  a  few  more  chilling  circumstances,  a  little 
more  hard  work,  a  little  more  exclusion  from  the  whole- 
some beauty  of  things,  and  it  might  never  have  put  forth 
at  all. 

His  association  with  the  silks,  in  some  strange  way, 
had  been  the  main  factor  in  keeping  the  passion  part  of 

58 


Second    Y outh 


him  from  dying  altogether.  His  walks  through  Central 
Park,  the  novels  and  poetry  he  read,  even  the  loose  talk 
among  the  men  in  Mrs.  Benson's  boarding-house,  had 
helped,  also;  and  under  the  sun  of  a  little  prosperity,  a 
little  authority  and  success,  it  had  been  preparing  for  the 
tropic  little  time  in  Miss  Winton's  company. 

He  began  to  feel  strange,  vital  outreachings,  that  were 
mostly  spiritual,  but  at  times  developed  into  quick, 
prickly  sensations  that  overran  his  whole  body — as  if 
he  were  about  to  put  forth  a  bud  at  every  pore.  In 
all  the  previous  romances  whose  births,  ghostly  lives, 
and  comparatively  painless  deaths  were  recorded  in 
his  diary,  he  had  felt  nothing  one-half  so  vital,  so 
physical. 

A  new  restlessness  and  a  new  loneliness  came  upon 
him  with  advancing  April.  The  feeling  came  on  him 
sometimes  during  the  day,  but  more  frequently  and 
strongly  toward  the  time  of  the  bursting  out  of  electric 
arc-flowers  along  the  streets  and  avenues.  The  casual 
associations  of  Mrs.  Benson's  boarding-house  did  not 
satisfy  him  as  they  had  once.  This  very  ancient  twilight 
hunger  often  seized  him  unawares — the  hunger  of  the  male 
for  its  little  close  six  walls,  and  the  shining  eyes  of  its  mate 
and  her  soft,  welcoming  love-sounds  in  the  gloom.  It 
brought  with  it  a  sort  of  crushing,  melancholy,  inward 
emptiness  which  he  did  not  understand,  and  feared  and 
repressed  accordingly. 

By  way  of  offset,  he  invested  in  a  bottle  of  a  well- 
advertised  spring  tonic,  bought  himself  a  pair  of  dumb- 
bells, and  began  to  take  exercise  mornings  and  evenings. 
Much  walking  had  given  him  an  unusually  fine  pair  of 
legs,  but  he  recognized  that  the  upper  part  of  his  body 
needed  a  good  deal  of  developing.  It  pleased  him  to 

59 


Second    Youth 


note  the  real  and  imagined  improvement  in  his  physique. 
Life  had  at  last  got  him  in  hand  and  was  perfecting  him, 
body  and  soul,  for  its  own  inscrutable  ends. 

On  Sunday,  April  9th,  near  midnight,  he  wrote  in  the 
book: 

This  evening  has  been  a  most  eventful  one  for  me. 
Mrs.  Benson  and  I  went  to  the  Empire  Vaudeville.  It 
was  amusing  and  I  enjoyed  it  greatly,  and  so  did  she. 
She  is  a  good  woman  and  capable,  and  she  says  she  is 
going  to  begin  exercising  and  taking  a  new  discovery  to 
reduce  her  weight.  But  this  was  not  what  I  specially 
intended  to  speak  of. 

Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  speak  of  it  at  all;  and  yet  I 
have  always  tried  to  be  perfectly  frank  and  sincere  in 
these  pages,  and  I  will  do  so  with  the  most  entire  respect. 
Then  I  may  say  that  there  is  something  attractive  about 
Mrs.  Benson;  I  do  not  know  exactly  what.  Something 
beautiful  and  inspiring.  It  is  much  like  the  silkworms 
and  the  silk. 

Of  course  she  is  nothing  like  a  worm,  and  far  be  it  from 
me  to  suggest  any  comparison.  And  yet  I  have  a  feeling 
in  certain  points  about  her  that  is  like  that  idea  of  the 
silkworms  and  the  silk. 

Although  she  is  not  beautiful  on  the  outside,  in  fact  her 
nose  is  short  and  red  and  I  fear  her  numerous  duties  do 
not  permit  her  to  take  as  good  care  of  her  hands  as  a 
woman  might  who  had  more  time  to  spend  in  making 
sure  that  there  were  no  mourning  bands  on  her  finger- 
nails. Nor  can  I  say  that  I  admire  her  hair,  I  never 
cared  for  either  of  the  two  distinct  shades  of  brown  it 

60 


Second    Youth 


seems  to  be,  however  peculiar  that  may  be.  Still,  there 
is  something  about  her  very  wonderful,  worthy  of  respect 
from  any  human  being,  very  stirring. 

I  felt  it  when  her  arm  happened  to  press  against  mine 
during  the  performance.  A  very  peculiar  feeling.  It 
seemed  to  elevate  me,  to  make  me  wish  I  had  made  a 
better  use  of  my  time  throughout  all  my  life.  I  cannot 
describe  exactly  what  I  mean.  It  also  made  me  regret 
that  I  have  not  done  more  in  the  small  ways  at  my  com- 
mand to  make  her  happy.  She  has  led  a  dull,  hard- 
working life. 

I  felt  it  again,  quite  strongly,  when  she  took  my  arm 
as  we  were  walking  back  to  the  boarding-house.  What 
a  hard  struggle  she  has  had  to  keep  Harry  at  school  and 
herself  supported  in  the  midst  of  strangers!  She  said 
she  had  known  little  real  happiness,  and  never  expected 
to  know  any. 

Even  when  Mr.  Benson  was  alive  he  sometimes  was 
forced  to  neglect  her  by  the  demands  of  his  business. 
She  said  if  I  ever  said  anything  against  Mr.  Benson,  all 
between  us  would  be  at  an  end.  I  certainly  have  no 
intentions  that  way,  and  I  was  hurt  by  her  feeling 
that  I  might  have,  but  she  said  she  knew  of  course  I 
wouldn't. 

I  felt  it  perhaps  most  strongly  when  she  shook  hands 
with  me  at  parting  in  the  lower  hall.  She  said  she  was 
really  glad  she'd  got  to  know  me  at  last;  she'd  always 
suspected  I  was  a  very  fine  man  beneath  my  shyness  and 
coldness.  Like  a  volcano  covered  with  snow,  she  said. 
Something  welled  up  in  me  at  these  words,  I  know  not 
what.  I  kissed  her  hand.  I'm  very  regretful  now  that  I 
did  it.  This  is  quite  aside  from  the  fact  that  I  do  not 
care  for  her  hands — I  could  not  care  for  them,  although 

61 


Second    Youth 


I  tried  to.     Beautiful  deeds  come  from  them,  and  I  am 
wrong  to  feel  as  I  do. 

Beautiful  hands  are  they  that  do 
Work  that  is  useful,  good  and  true. 

This  silly  old  rhyme  comes  back  to  me  from  the  days 
when  it  was  printed  in  my  copy-book  for  me  to  learn  pen- 
manship from,  and  it  is  quite  true,  and  surely  all  those 
things  can  be  said  of  Mrs.  Benson's  hands.  And  yet  I 
cannot  sincerely  say  that  I  like  them.  In  fact,  I  dislike 
them;  I  really  do.  It  is  a  problem. 

All  the  time  I  could  not  help  thinking  about  another. 
Just  the  thought  of  her  worried  me,  as  if  I  were  doing 
something  unworthy,  something  that  would  offend  her. 
That  is  humorous,  of  course. 

I  am  a  doddering  old  fool.  I  anticipate  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure  from  my  new  friendliness  with  Mrs.  Benson,  and 
I  think  she,  also,  deeply  needs  a  friend.  She  said  she  was 
going  to  get  a  new  dress  to  go  out  in;  not  black.  She 
asked  me  what  color  I  thought  would  be  best  for  an 
evening  dress,  and  I  said  I  thought  oyster  was.  It 
was  thoughtless  of  me;  I  fear  it  would  not  entirely 
suit  her. 

One  must  remember  that  colors  have  a  sort  of  meaning, 
a  feeling  about  them.  Oyster  means  pale  new  buds  like 
those  I  saw  in  Central  Park,  it  seems  to  me.  I  did  not 
think  of  this  when  I  bought  my  oyster  vest.  It  is  more 
suitable  for  beautiful  young  girls  in  the  first  beauty  and 
purity  of  spring  than  for  a  man.  I  told  Mrs.  Benson 
that  I  thought  on  second  thought  some  other  color  might 
be  more  appropriate  for  her,  but  she  said  no,  she  liked 

my  first  suggestion  best. 

62 


Second    Youth 


She  said  she  would  get  an  oyster  silk,  although  she  did 
not  see  just  how  she  could  afford  it  unless  some  one  in 
my  position  at  McDavitt's  helped  reduce  the  price. 
I  said,  certainly,  I  would  see  to  it  that  whatever  she 
wanted  came  to  her  at  cost.  I  was  surprised,  I  fear; 
McDavitt's  rules  are  very  strict;  only  wives  and  sisters 
at  cost.  I  think  some  of  the  men  pass  off  for  their  wives 
and  sisters  women  who  are  not  so,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
I  could  pass  her  off  as  my  sister;  still  I  think  it  might  be 
better  to  make  up  the  difference  out  of  my  own  pocket 
and  say  nothing  about  it.  My  bank  account  will  be 
going  up,  now,  by  leaps  and  bounds,  and  I  should  be  glad 
to  help  others  who  are  not  so  lucky. 

I  did  not  go  over  to  Brooklyn  to-day  as  I  intended,  but 
I  will  write  to-morrow  and  offer  to  help  defray  the  ex- 
penses of  one  of  the  boys  through  college.  I  am  sorry, 
but  the  idea  of  association  with  my  uncle  does  not  impress 
me  favorably.  I  have  not  seen  him  nor  heard  from  him 
for  the  past  five  years,  and  I'm  not  sorry  I  haven't.  One 
must  have  a  little  iron  in  one's  disposition. 

Besides,  I  have  a  great  many  demands  on  my  time. 
I  think  I  shall  perhaps  be  occupied  with  Mrs.  Benson  quite 
a  good  deal,  and  I  shall  do  what  I  can  to  soften  her  hard 
life,  nor  do  I  feel  that  the  benefits  will  be  all  on  her  side. 
There  is  something  about  her  that  makes  me  forget  my 
melancholy  and  spring  fever  better  than  the  dumb- 
bells and  the  sarsaparilla  put  together. 

On  Wednesday,  April  12th,  he  wrote: 


Just  home  from  Empire  Vaudeville  with  Mrs.  Benson. 

She  had  bought  a  new  dress  ready  made  to  wear  till  she 

(53 


Second    Youth 


saves  up  enough  to  get  the  oyster;  it  was  very  pretty  for 
linen;  it  made  her  look  years  younger. 

We  had  a  fine  time  together.  She  has  a  good  sense  of 
humor;  she  cheered  me  up  a  great  deal.  I  had  been  feel- 
ing melancholy  before. 

An  accident  happened  as  we  started  up  the  steps  to  the 
house  on  returning.  She  stubbed  her  toe  and  almost  fell. 
Luckily,  she  fell  right  in  my  arms.  She  was  not  hurt; 
merely  frightened.  It  took  her  quite  a  little  time  to  get 
her  breath.  I  wonder  if  I  could  be  happy  with  Mrs.  Ben- 
son. If  she  could  ever  forget  Mr.  Benson  sufficiently  to 
consider  it,  I  truly  think  I  might.  I  am  almost  sure  of  it. 
Is  it  possible  for  a  man  to  love  two  at  the  same  time?  In 
entirely  different  ways,  of  course. 


A    TYPICAL,    DAY    AT    MCDAVITT  S — SOMEWHAT    DISORDERED 
BY   THE   INTRUSION   OF   AN   IDEAL 

IT  is  a  few  minutes  past  seven-thirty  in  the  morning, 
and  Mr.  Francis  turns  from  Fifth  Avenue  to  the  great 
stone  side-entrance  of  McDavitt's  Department  Store. 
The  clerks'  entrance,  the  little  narrow  stairway  leading 
down  to  the  basement  in  the  extreme  rear,  is  his  no 
longer;  he  walks  with  dignity  as  he  approaches  the  dig- 
nified entrance  that  is  permitted  only  to  those  of  some 
authority  in  the  conduct  of  the  store  and  to  customers. 

An  anemic  youth,  sitting  at  a  desk  just  inside  one  of  the 
caught-back  swing  doors,  nods  at  him  and  writes  some- 
thing on  a  big  ruled  slab  of  cardboard.  Mr.  Francis,  as 
invariably,  is  on  time. 

He  removes  his  black  soft  hat  and  smooths  his  hair 
back  from  his  high,  moist  forehead;  for  it  is  a  warm 
morning  near  the  first  of  May,  and  he  always  walks  briskly 
when  going  to  business.  With  lightness  of  step  and 
dignity  of  black  cutaway  coat  he  proceeds  back  through 
the  household  linen  to  the  buyers'  coat-lockers,  a  row  of 
green  iron  cages  behind  a  mirror-faced  partition  at  the 
rear  of  the  store. 

He  hangs  up  his  hat,  twirls  the  combkiation  on  the 
wire  door  of  the  little  cage,  and  stops  to  glance  at  himself 
in  the  mirror  of  the  wash-stand.  He  admires  his  gold- 

65 


Second    Youth 


rimmed  glasses  and  his  lack  of  sideburns;  he  looks  up-to- 
date,  serious-minded,  business-like.  With  a  final  jerk  of 
adjustment  at  the  lapels  of  his  coat,  he  leaves  the  locker- 
corridor,  goes  through  one  corner  of  the  stationery,  takes 
an  elevator  to  the  second  floor,  and  steps  out  in  the  midst 
of  his  own  department. 

Clerks  are  already  at  work  removing  the  black  farmers'- 
satin  dust-cloths  from  the  long  tables,  shelves,  and  counters 
of  silk.  Mr.  Francis  nods  to  such  of  them  as  come  more 
directly  in  his  path  over  to  the  buyers'  office.  He  opens 
the  frosted-glass  door  and  enters  the  office,  a  long,  narrow 
space  partitioned  off  by  ground-glass  and  imitation  ma- 
hogany; the  huge  outside  south  windows  of  the  store  are 
on  the  other  side,  letting  splashes  and  streaks  of  morning 
sunshine  through  the  lowered  slat-blinds. 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Barney,"  he  says  to  the  office 
stenographer,  a  natty  young  lady  of  duck  skirt,  lingerie 
shirtwaist,  and  many  pleasant  curves,  who  is  dusting  off 
her  typewriter. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Francis,"  she  replies,  and  pauses 
to  look  at  him  with  rather  languorous  dark-blue  eyes. 

Seating  himself  at  his  substantial  imitation-mahogany 
roll  desk,  Mr.  Francis  applies  himself  to  a  pile  of  invoices 
impaled  on  a  spike-file.  Before  he  finishes  assorting  the 
blue,  white,  and  red  papers  several  gongs  ring  out  in  the 
body  of  the  store.  It  is  seven-forty-five,  and  in  fifteen 
minutes  McDavitt's  day  will  be  officially  opened.  Any 
clerk  not  already  in  his  place  will  find  himself  minus  a 
quarter  at  the  end  of  the  week;  any  buyer  or  office  em- 
ployee not  already  past  the  anemic  young  man  at  the 
door  will  have  the  fact  called  to  his  attention  by  a  slip 
in  his  next  Tuesday's  pay-envelope. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Francis,"  says  a  gray-haired  man 


Second    Youth 


with  a  stiff,  round-trimmed  white  beard,  hurrying  into  the 
office. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Remmick,"  says  Francis,  bowing 
with  respect;  for  the  old  man  is  McDavitt's  silk-buyer, 
the  head  of  McDavitt's  celebrated  silk  department,  and 
Mr.  Francis's  very  esteemed  superior.  "I  hope  your 
rheumatism  is  better  this  morning,  sir?" 

"A  little  worse  than  usual,  thank  you,"  replies  the 
buyer,  which  is  his  usual  reply  to  the  morning  ques- 
tion. 

Mr.  Francis  expresses  his  customary,  and  genuine,  re- 
gret, and  goes  out  to  make  sure  that  all  is  right  and  ready 
for  the  day's  selling.  He  walks  through  the  half-dozen 
aisles,  making  a  suggestion  here  and  there  as  to  a  slight 
rearrangement  of  the  goods  on  display;  but  his  work  is 
largely  perfunctory,  for  most  of  McDavitt's  clerks  are  old 
employees  and  know  McDavitt's  principles  of  display 
almost  as  well  as  Mr.  Francis  does  himself. 

The  gongs  ring  again,  a  succession  of  them  rising  in 
volume  from  a  low-toned  tinkle  in  distant  departments 
to  an  infernal  clangor  near  at  hand.  McDavitt's  day  is 
officially  begun. 

Mr.  Francis  takes  an  elevator  up  to  the  reserve- 
stock  room  on  the  top  floor  and  orders  down  a  list 
of  materials  he  has  made  out  the  previous  day.  After 
he  feels  that  he  has  sufficiently  impressed  the  sixteen- 
year-old  stock-clerk  he  walks  half  a  block  through  nar- 
row aisles  piled  high  on  either  side  with  merchandise, 
over  to  the  receiving-room.  There  is  plenty  of  sun- 
light here,  for  McDavitt's  buys  in  sunlight  what  it  sells 
by  electric  arcs. 

He  goes  over  the  silks  received  that  morning,  making 

sure  that  the  quality  is  up  to  the  standards  specified  on 

67 


Second    Youth 


the  bills,  verifying  the  amounts.  All  of  this  takes  him 
the  better  part  of  two  hours. 

When  he  returns  to  his  own  department,  whither  the 
reserve-stock  goods  that  he  has  ordered  down  have  already 
preceded  him,  a  few  customers  are  beginning  to  wander 
along  the  aisles.  He  settles  down  to  his  principal  daily 
occupation,  verifying  price-tags,  making  sure  that  the 
clerks  give  proper  attention  to  customers,  changing  a 
display  of  orange-colored  pongee  here,  creating  a  new  one 
of  charmeuse  and  messaline  there,  arranging  the  folds 
himself,  often  standing  off  and  observing  with  cocked 
head  and  narrowed  eyes,  like  the  artist  he  is,  to  make  sure 
that  the  display  is  right  in  itself  and  in  harmony  with  the 
displays  on  either  side. 

Toward  eleven  o'clock  Mr.  Remmick  strolls  out  of  his 
office  to  look  over  the  department.  He  walks  slowly, 
heavily,  because  of  his  rheumatism,  and  the  droop  of  his 
big  gray  head  in  front  balances  his  big  knotted  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back.  He  goes  through  the  depart- 
ment methodically,  every  aisle  and  corner,  glancing  from 
left  to  right  like  a  general  at  inspection,  stopping  at  times 
to  take  in  the  general  effect. 

"Very  good,  Francis,"  he  says,  meeting  his  assistant,  as 
the  assistant  had  arranged,  at  the  finish  of  the  inspection. 
"Very  good,  indeed.  I  have  no  suggestions  to  make." 

Mr.  Francis  is  filled  with  joy,  not  so  much  because  of  the 
praise  as  because  of  a  subtler  matter:  for  the  first  time 
Mr.  Remmick  has  called  him  "Francis,"  plain  "Francis," 
without  the  "Mister." 

It  is  really  a  delicate  and  important  point,  one  of  those 
milestones  in  the  mighty  world  of  merchandizing.  Mr. 
Remmick  would  have  addressed  most  of  his  clerks  by 

their  plain,  unadorned  last  names,  signifying  thereby  his 

68 


Second    Youth 


conscious  superiority.  There  would  have  been  a  vast 
difference  in  the  plain  "Francis"  if  Mr.  Francis  had  been 
a  simple  clerk. 

The  older,  better-paid  clerks  Mr.  Remmick  invariably 
addressed  with  the  "Mister,"  thereby  signifying  their 
advance  in  the  scale.  He  had  called  Mr.  Francis  "Mr. 
Francis  "  from  the  first;  it  had  been  faintly  condescending, 
but  quite  respectful.  Plain  "Francis,"  coming  after  this 
history,  signified  practical  equality,  genuine  friendly  feeling, 
and  respect.  It  was  like  a  patent  of  simple  human  worth, 
a  diploma  of  character  as  well  as  of  ability.  There  was 
only  one  title  higher  within  Mr.  Francis's  reach — the  final 
return  to  the  "Mister,"  which  would  then  indicate  that 
Mr.  Francis  had  passed  his  superior,  had  become  the 
superior  himself. 

Francis  found  it  necessary  to  caution  himself,  in- 
ternally, against  the  folly  of  pride  shortly  after  this 
incident.  He  had  arrived,  and  the  realization  of  it  gave 
him  a  warm  feeling  throughout  his  length  and  breadth; 
at  the  same  time  he  humbly  opined  that  there  were  still 
unattained  levels  for  his  striving,  and  he  held  his  rejoicing 
in  check.  The  only  visible  sign  of  it  was  a  new  display 
of  foulard,  which  he  started  shortly  afterward  on  a  coign 
of  vantage  that  had  been  devoted  to  tub  silks  of  rather 
indifferent  coloring. 

He  hummed  a  little  tune  as  he  arranged  the  shimmering, 
gleaming  folds  of  the  heavy  silk.  The  color  was  a  robin's- 
egg  blue,  relieved  by  a  small  shawl  pattern  at  pleasant 
intervals.  He  stood  off  to  get  the  general  effect;  a  pier 
of  taupe  charmeuse  rose  from  the  mahogany  counter  not 
far  behind  the  foulard,  and  he  was  almost  tempted  to 
relax  into  a  smile  as  he  contemplated  the  effect  of  the 

hareiasious   colors.    Instead,   he  scowled  thoughtfully, 

69 


Second    Y outh 


hummed  his  little  tune,  smoothed  his  hair  back  from  his 
brow,  and  nodded  with  quiet  satisfaction. 

"You  really  enjoy  doing  that,  don't  you?" 

The  voice  sent  all  the  blood  from  his  heart  and  back 
again  in  two  tremendous  leaps;  for  a  moment  his  back- 
bone seemed  turned  to  butter;  and  then,  for  some  reason, 
it  stiffened  as  suddenly  as  it  had  melted,  stiffened  with  an 
ache  that  hurt  him,  that  made  him  erect  and  calm  by  its 
very  pain. 

He  turned  slowly,  calmly.  "Yes,  Mrs.  Twombly,"  he 
said,  and  the  name,  also,  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  ache. 
"Yes — I  enjoy  it  a  great  deal." 

"I  thought  it  was  to  be  Miss  Winton?"  she  suggested, 
after  a  little  pause,  during  which  she  seemed  to  be  taking 
his  new  measure;  if  she  was  at  all  surprised  or  ruffled  by 
his  reception,  she  did  not  show  it.  She  was  far  calmer 
than  he  was,  and  her  quizzical  interest,  her  mingling  of 
faint  admiration  and  faint  scorn,  was  in  her  eyes  and  in 
the  faintly  upward  curves  of  her  mouth-corners.  As  she 
stood  looking  at  him  her  eyelids  drooped  a  little,  with  a 
delicate  hint  of  bored  amusement. 

"Miss  Winton — of  course.  Please  excuse  me,"  said 
Francis,  stiff er  than  a  ramrod.  "What  may  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  showing  you?" 

Her  familiar  laugh  came  at  that,  light  contralto  chuckles 
that  ran  an  upward  scale  of  pure  mirth.  Mr.  Francis's 
back  ceased  to  be  straight;  it  became  concave.  His  soft 
hazel  eyes  managed,  in  some  inexplicable  way,  to  harden. 

"Oh,  I  think  you  can  show  me  some  of  that  pongee," 
she  said,  lightly,  and  turned  away  from  him  toward  the 
column  of  orange  silk. 

Francis,  forgetting  that  he  was  no  longer  a  clerk,  strode 
behind  the  counter  to  wait  upon  her. 

70 


Second    Youth 


"You  know,  it's  the  American  in  you  that  makes  you — 
makes  you  put  your  back  up  that  way!"  she  told  him, 
fingering  the  fabric  on  display.  "A  European  might 
feel  exactly  as  you  do,  but  he'd  bow,  and  fawn,  and 
scrape.  Tell  me  there's  nothing  in  democratic  institu- 
tions! After  a  few  generations  they  work  right  into  the 
blood — into  the  backbone,  rather!  Tell  me,  is  this  really 
a  good  quality?"  she  finished. 

"Very  good."  The  words  were  a  defiance.  "We  have 
a  better  quality." 

"Please  let  me  see  it." 

He  turned  back  for  the  bolt,  still  concave  as  to  back, 
hard  as  to  eyes,  icy  as  to  every  word  and  movement. 
And  yet  the  whole  of  his  consciousness  was  one  mighty 
interrogation  as  to  how  he  could  act  that  way.  He  had 
never  consciously  blamed  Miss  Winton,  and  yet  here  was 
all  of  him  up  in  one  tremendous  revolt  against  her  at- 
titude, her  perfectly  natural  and  explicable  attitude, 
toward  him. 

He  opened  the  bolt  before  her  and  automatically  let  a 
length  of  the  silk  run  between  thumb  and  long,  white, 
well-kept  fingers. 

"  Still,  I'm  glad  you've  taken  it  this  way,"  she  told  him, 
fingering  the  silk,  to  all  appearances  intent  upon  an 
examination  of  it.  "I  treated  you  quite  damnably,  of 
course;  not  one-tenth  as  damnably  as  many — many  girls 
are  treated,  but  still  damnably  enough  so  that  I'm  ashamed 
of  it.  I  thought  I'd  just  drop  in  and  be  sure  that  no 
damage  had  been  done — and  anyway,  I  can't  give  up 
coming  to  the  best  silk  department  in  the  city  just  because 
I've  made  a — a  mistake,  can  I?" 

"No — certainly  not,"  admitted  Mr.  Francis,  and  the 

concavity  of  his  back  disappeared. 

71 


Second    Youth 


"I'd  only  just  discovered  McDavitt's  when  I  discovered 

you;  I'd  always  been  used  to  going  to ."  She  gave 

the  name  of  the  most  exclusive  and  high-priced  depart- 
ment store  in  the  city.  "  But  I  find  that  your  selection  is 
positively  larger,  higher  classed." 

"A  great  many  people  are  attracted  by 's  name," 

commented  Mr.  Francis,  half  conscious  of  inflicting  a  dig, 
half  conscious  of  his  permeating  pride  in  his  own  store. 

"Why — you  can  sort  of  lay  me  out — even  when  you 
aren't  so  desperately  angry  with  me  any  more,  can't 
you?"  she  commented. 

"Believe  me,  I  did  not — "  protested  Francis. 

"Oh  yes,  you  did;  and  I  deserved  it."  She  held  a 
length  of  the  silk  up  against  the  light  and  looked  through 
it.  "You  know,  it  struck  me  afterward  that  we  might 
perfectly  well  be  good — acquaintances.  If  I  hadn't 
started —  I  mean  if  what  happened  a  week  ago  hadn't 
happened.  Still,  people  are  always  starting  trouble  by 
thinking  they  can  be  nothing  but  good  acquaintances — 
aren't  they?" 

Mr.  Francis  admitted,  huskily,  "I  suppose  that  is  true." 
He  tried  to  preserve  his  dignity,  but  a  more  powerful 
emotion  mingled  with  it,  softening  his  eyes,  making  his 
back  positively  convex. 

She  glanced  up  at  him.  "You're  not  very  reassuring!" 
she  said.  "Have  you  really  got  over  caring  about  my 
acquaintance?" 

The  archness  of  her  indicated  too  well  that  she  knew  he 
hadn't.  Francis  suppressed  the  confession  that  rushed 
up  for  utterance.  He  was  learning  fast. 

While  he  looked,  holding  himself  steady,  into  her 
raised  and  waiting  blue-gray  eyes,  he  remembered  some- 
thing she  had  said  about  the  cost  of  such  friendships — 

72 


Second    Youth 


the  cost — the  price — whether  it  was  worth  what  it  cost 
department-store  girls  to  be  beaued  around  by  superior 
men — that  was  it.  Of  course  that  had  nothing  to  do 
with  his  own  case,  but  nevertheless  there  was  a  question 
of  cost  in  it  for  him  also. 

"My  acquaintance  with  you  the  other  night  cost  me 
just  thirty-five  dollars,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  twinkle 
behind  his  glasses;  it  was  rather  humorous. 

She  was  so  surprised  that  she  gave  up  all  pretense  of 
being  interested  in  the  orange  pongee.  "What  do  you 
mean?"  she  asked,  blankly. 

In  short,  jerky  sentences,  which  he  tried  to  make 
humorous,  he  told  her  how  he  had  sat  the  rest  of  the 
night  out  in  Madison  Square,  mentioned  the  peculiar 
and  suggestive  combination  of  greens  that  appeared  at 
dawn,  and  related  the  final  disposition  of  the  sum  that  he 
had  drawn  for  their  joint  entertainment. 

Most  of  the  time  she  listened  with  her  head  drooping, 
her  eyes  and  fingers  busy  with  the  bright-colored  silk. 
When  he  had  finished,  with  "And  then  I  found  I  had  just 
enough  change  left  for  two  cups  of  coffee  and  two  sand- 
wiches— and  after  I'd  had  them  I  began  to  see  the  humor 
of  the  situation,"  she  sat  down  in  one  of  the  low-backed 
revolving  customers'  chairs,  and  soberly  said  nothing  at  all. 
Neither  did  she  look  up  at  him. 

"Oh,  and  I  wrote  in  my  diary  that  I'd  had  a  very 
advanced  day!"  he  added,  vaguely  joyous  because  of  the 
interest  he  seemed  to  have  aroused.  "I  thought  'ad- 
vanced' was  exactly  the  right  word!" 

A  floor-walker,  bearded,  erect,  expansive  of  front,  strode 
past  them. 

"  I  think  you  may  give  me  five  yards  of  that,"  announced 

Miss  Winton  while  the  dignitary  was  still  within  hearing. 
6  73 


Second    Youth 


"  I  mean  it  this  time !"  she  added  to  Mr.  Francis,  glancing 
up  at  him  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  begun  his  con- 
clusion of  the  adventures  that  she  had  started. 

"Yes — of  course,"  said  Mr.  Francis,  looking  around  for 
his  sales-pad.  Since  his  sales-pad  was  not  in  sight  and 
he  couldn't  remember  where  he  had  left  it,  it  was  gradu- 
ally borne  in  upon  him  that  he  was  no  longer  a  salesman. 

"Please  excuse  me — I'll  just  take  the  bolt  to  a  clerk," 
he  said,  and  hurried  away  with  it,  too  deep  in  the  problem 
of  Miss  Winton's  peculiarly  unhumorous  reception  of  his 
humor  to  notice  her  stare  of  interest.  Perhaps,  he 
thought,  she  was  worried  by  the  use  of  the  word  "ad- 
vanced." People  often  called  themselves  things  that  it 
hurt  their  feelings  to  have  others  call  them. 

He  came  back  ready  to  begin  an  apology.  She  met 
him  with,  "Then  aren't  you  a  clerk  any  longer?" 

"The  fact  is,  I've  been  advanced  to  be  assistant  buyer," 
he  told  her,  confidentially.  "I'd  been  expecting  it  for 
some  time — and  they've  been  exceedingly  liberal  with  me." 

She  congratulated  him,  a  little  absent-mindedly,  he 
thought,  and  stood  silent  and  introspective,  looking  out 
across  the  store,  until  the  clerk  returned  with  her  package. 
The  clerk  handed  it  to  Mr.  Francis  and,  having  an  ordinary 
amount  of  perception,  beat  a  hasty  retreat.  Mr.  Francis, 
with  a  bow,  passed  it  along  to  Miss  Winton. 

"I  hope  you  didn't  misunderstand  me — about — about 
acquaintance!"  he  begged,  hastily,  before  she  could  turn 
away.  "Just  this — this  seeing  of  you,  talking  with  you — 
you  must  know  how  I  appreciate  it!" 

As  he  often  did,  he  found  himself  quoting  his  diary: 
"It  is  one  of  the  advantages  of  my  position  that  I  am  able 
to  associate,  even  on  a  business  basis,  with  persons  of — 
your — your  refinement." 

74 


Second    Y outh 


That  mouthful  brought  him  the  reward  of  a  glance  and 
smile  that  might  have  been  interpreted  as  friendly  or 
helpless  with  amusement. 

"I'll  hope  to  see  you  again  some  time,"  she  returned, 
in  a  voice  as  ambiguous  as  the  smile;  "but  certainly  not 
soon." 

That,  at  least,  wasn't  ambiguous.  Dashed,  with  a 
sudden  return  of  the  ache  in  his  throat  that  had  been 
so  notably  absent  during  most  of  the  conversation,  he 
watched  her  float  out  of  sight  among  the  white  pillars 
of  the  department. 

She  had  on  a  tailored  suit  of  some  dark-tan  material, 
he  noticed  for  the  first  time,  with  a  coat  that  flared  a  little 
in  the  new  military  way.  Her  wide  tan  straw  hat  was 
glazed  so  that  it  gleamed  back  at  him,  and  she  moved 
without  any  apparent  effort,  as  an  angel  might. 

Chatty  and  as  much  at  ease  as  he  had  been  most  of 
the  time  while  she  was  before  him,  now  that  she  was  gone 
he  was  as  miserable  as  when  she  had  dismissed  him  the 
first  time.  In  a  way,  he  was  more  miserable,  for  he  was 
beginning  to  have  a  real  love  for  her,  a  love  that  reached 
small  but  tenacious  roots  into  the  untouched  man  soil 
deep  within  him. 

"Bah!"  he  muttered  to  himself,  trying  to  eradicate 
them  and  in  some  measure  succeeding,  schooled  in  ro- 
mantic disappointments  as  he  was.  "Bah — you  fool! 
You  must  forget  her  just  as  you've  forgotten  the  others. 
You  can  do  it!" 

But  deep  within  him  there  was  the  unmistakable  ache 
of  things  struggling  to  live  against  his  will,  of  things 
that  had  gone  deeper  than  anything  had  ever  gone  in 
that  particular  direction  before.  Once  he  caught  himself 
standing  before  his  display  of  blue  foulard  and  thinking 

75 


Second    Youth 


how  she  might  look  in  a  dinner  gown  of  that.  There  was 
something  regal  about  her,  as  well  as  something  of  every- 
thing else  that  ever  appertained  to  woman  since  the  first 
was  made.  The  immensity  of  her,  the  diversity,  the 
range,  the  contradictoriness  awed  him,  left  him  all  at  sea. 
He  could  not  have  cared  for  the  feminine  simplicity  of  the 
so-called  natural  variety  one-tenth  as  much;  on  the 
aesthetic  side,  he  was  highly  civilized. 

Twice  he  caught  himself  repeating  her  name  as  if  it 
were  the  open  sesame  to  paradise — or  hell.  It  emerged 
without  effort  or  expectation  on  his  part  from  the  tangle 
of  dreams,  ideas,  hopes,  fears,  despondencies,  aspirations, 
and  all  the  other  mixed  and  variously  shaded  emotions 
whose  tangle  filled  up  the  rest  of  that  day  at  McDavitt's. 

"I'm  sure  you're  not  feeling  well,  Mr.  Francis,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Benson  at  the  evening  dinner- table.  "Do 
let  me  get  you  a  bit  of  something  special — some  milk 
toast,  say.  Sha'n't  I?" 

"I  feel  perfectly  well.  In  fact,  I  feel  unusually  well," 
Francis  assured  her. 

In  spite  of  the  assurance  she  stalked  and  bagged  him 
on  the  way  to  his  room,  whither  he  headed  immediately 
after  dinner,  and  begged  him  to  allow  her  to  share  any 
trouble  that  might  have  befallen  him.  He  hadn't  lost 
his  job,  had  he?  or  anything  like  that?  He  made 
more  denials,  backed,  still  denying,  into  his  room,  and 
hard-heartedly  shut  the  door  in  her  face. 

"  So  this  the  way  you  treat  me?"  complained  Mrs. 
Benson,  with  some  spirit,  from  the  other  side  of  the  door. 

"Yes,"  admitted  Mr.  Francis  from  the  depths  of  the 
rocker  where  he  had  allowed  himself  and  his  load  of 
sorrows  to  drop. 

"You're  not  yourself.  You'll  apologize  later.  I  know 

79 


Second    Youth 


you  will.  You're  temperamental,  that's  what  you  are," 
declared  his  landlady,  and  went  down  the  stairs  with 
creaking  decision. 

After  alternately  walking  the  floor  and  rocking  himself 
in  his  comfortable  willow  rocker  for  half  an  hour,  Mr. 
Francis  wrote  in  the  book: 


Thursday,  April  27th.  It  is  all  up  with  Mrs.  Benson. 
I  simply  can't  stand  her  after  to-day.  I  was  foolish  to 
think,  for  a  little  while,  that  I  could  still  love  one  and  wed 
another.  Or  perhaps  I  did  not  care  for  the  other  in 
exactly  the  same  way  as  I  do  this  evening.  I  seem  to 
change  rapidly  of  late.  Perhaps  in  a  few  days  I  will  come 
back  to  where  I  was  before  on  this  matter,  so  will  say 
nothing  definite. 

She  was  in  to-day,  bought  five  yds.  orange  pongee  which 
won't  become  her  and  which  possibly  she  did  not  want. 
Why  did  she  come?  She  came  because  she  thought  she 
had  hurt  my  feelings,  of  course,  you  fool,  and  she  had, 
although  they  had  no  right  to  be.  As  an  advanced  lady, 
she  had  a  right  to  ask  me  out  to  dinner,  and  any  lady 
has  a  right  to  ask  a  man  to  go  home  when  she  wants  him 
to.  That's  all  there  is  to  it.  I  don't  know  why  I  got 
my  back  up  so.  Still,  I  think  it  was  a  good  thing  I  did 
get  my  back  up,  to  my  great  surprise.  It  may  perhaps 
not  always  pay  to  be  too  reasonable. 

I  must  occupy  my  mind.  I  must  read  more.  If  I  did 
not  think  Mrs.  Benson  would  stop  me  if  I  tried  to  go  out, 
I  would  go  to  the  library  and  get  something  else  on 
Philosophy.  I  have  finished  Wm.  James  Pragmatism, 
and  he  suggests  some  other  works.  I  feel  I  must  be  more 

thorough  in  the  future  in  my  reading.     I  have  not  been 

77 


Second    Youth 


looking  up  all  words  not  understood,  and  my  habit  of 
skipping  over  things  just  because  I  do  not  understand 
them  must  be  overcome.  I  must  also  be  more  regular 
with  my  exercises  and  sarsaparilla.  A  man  soon  gets 
negligent  of  himself  if  he  isn't  careful. 

A  misty,  rainy  day.  I  noticed  it  especially  as  I  came 
home,  and  I  seem  to  feel  it  now  as  if  I  were  outside,  even 
with  all  my  curtains  down  and  the  lamp  lighted. 

Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall. 

— ANON. 

That  is  silly  and  sentimental,  but  I'm  not  up  to  writing 
this  evening,  and  that's  the  truth.  My  style  is  bad.  I 
must  read  a  book  on  style  in  writing.  I  fear  if  I  were 
ever  called  upon  to  write  a  letter  to  a  really  educated  person 
I  would  not  appear  to  advantage.  Perhaps  I  might  want 
to  write  to  Miss  Winton  sometime  and  ask  her  advice. 
She  told  me  if  I  ever  needed  a  friend  in  any  trouble  I 
was  to  come  to  her.  I  don't  know  whether  she  meant  it, 
or  was  merely  sarcastic  or  ironical — I  always  get  those 
words  mixed.  Besides,  she  doesn't  expect  me  to  have  her 
address,  and  I  haven't,  except  somewhere  where  I  can't 
get  rid  of  it. 

Perhaps  if  I  slip  down-stairs  very  quietly  later  on  Mrs. 
Benson  will  not  hear,  and  I  can  get  to  the  library  in  time 
to  draw  some  books  before  nine  o'clock.  There  is  some 
disadvantage  in  living  on  the  second  floor  when  Mrs. 
Benson  lives  in  the  front  parlor  and  generally  keeps  the 
door  open.  However,  by  avoiding  the  creaky  steps, 
which  I  think  I  remember,  perhaps  I  can  get  to  the  door 
at  least  before  she  hears.  I  may  apologize  to  her  later 
for  refusing  her  kindness  this  evening,  but  I  do  not  feel 

up  to  it  now. 

78 


Second    Youth 


I  think  I  might  as  well  go  out  now.  After  all,  why 
should  I  fear  Mrs.  Benson?  She  is  only  my  landlady,  even 
if  she  is  a  good  and  capable  and  kind-hearted  one.  At 
least  that's  the  way  I  feel  about  her  to-night.  She  has  no 
right  whatever  to  interfere  with  me  if  I  desire  to  go  to 
the  library.  One  must  have  a  little  iron  in  one's  disposi- 
tion or  one  won't  get  on  well. 

With  the  greatest  precautions  against  noise,  in  spite  of 
his  recent  recommendation  of  iron,  Mr.  Francis  stole  down 
the  stairs.  Thanks  to  his  knowledge  of  the  creaky  steps 
and  his  natural  delicacy  of  foot,  he  succeeded  better  than 
he  had  expected.  No  one  challenged  him  from  the 
slightly  opened  door,  no  one  challenged  even  when  he 
slipped  the  bolt  of  the  big  front  door  and  stole  outside. 

He  walked  across  Eleventh  Street  to  Greenwich  Avenue, 
holding  his  head  high  against  the  rain-mist  as  befitted 
one  who  had  just  accomplished  a  difficult  bit  of  strategy. 
When  the  library  closed  he  carried  Spencer's  Data  of 
Ethics  home  with  him,  ran  the  gantlet  of  the  front  hall 
with  ease  because  he  felt  sure  that  he  was  supposed  to 
be  in  his  own  room,  and  read  Spencer  until  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  His  mind  had  never  seemed  to  work  so 
quickly,  to  grasp  and  correlate  so  well.  Without  having 
heard  of  the  then  new  and  popular  theory  of  sex  permuta- 
tion, he  succeeded  in  putting  it  into  practice  to  a  very 
citeable  degree. 

Spencer  would  not  have  been  interrupted  even  at  two 
o'clock  but  for  the  return  of  Whiggam,  who  had  the 
second-floor  back. 

Whiggam  put  his  round  face  in  at  Francis's  door. 

"Saw  your  light  through  keyhole!"  announced  Whig- 
gam. 

79 


Second    Youth 


Whiggam  was  "all  lit  up  like  a  town  clock,"  as  he  was 
accustomed  to  remark  of  his  frequent  evening  exhilara- 
tions. 

"Oh,  did  you?"  asked  Mr.  Francis,  stupid  with  much 
hard  reading. 

"Yes."  Whiggam's  owlish  gaze  traveled  around  the 
room,  came  back  to  Francis,  became  suddenly  cryptic, 
big  with  meaning. 

"Say,  'bo,  look  out  for  Big  B.!"  he  shot  in  a  husky 
whisper  in  Francis's  direction,  closed  the  door  with  silent 
suddenness,  and  went  tiptoeing  down  the  hall. 

Francis  blinked  stupidly  at  the  closed  door.  "Big  B." 
was  the  pet  name  which  some  of  the  men  boarders  applied 
to  Mrs.  Benson. 

"He's  probably  not  accountable,"  concluded  Francis, 
noticed  that  his  alarm-clock  pointed  to  2  A.M.,  and  went 
hurriedly  to  bed. 

Whiggam  was  the  stock  humorist  of  the  boarding-house, 
anyway,  especially,  as  is  the  habit  of  stock  humorists, 
when  he  was  ''all  lit  up." 


VI 


HE    CONTINUES    TO    RISE,    ESPECIALLY    IN   GENTILITY,    AND 
IN   MATTERS   SARTORIAL 

MR.  REMMICK  diversified  his  lines  that  morning. 
The  typical  McDavitt  day  of  Mr.  Francis  had 
gone  as  far  as  Mr.  Francis's  question,  "I  hope  your 
rheumatism  is  better  this  morning,  sir?"  to  which,  of 
course,  the  accepted  reply  from  Mr.  Remmick  was,  "A 
little  worse  than  usual,  thank  you.'* 

Instead  of  playing  his  accepted  part,  Mr.  Remmick 
countered  Mr.  Francis's  question  with  another.  "Any  of 
your  relatives  English,  Francis?"  he  asked. 

"Why — I — away  back,"  admitted  Mr.  Francis,  dis- 
ordered by  this  smashing  of  precedents.  "Yes,  I  think 
I've  heard  my  father  say  the  family  came  originally  from 
England." 

"Hm!"  said  Mr.  Remmick  and  repeated  with  great 
meaning,  "Hm!"  He  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  tossed 
a  morning  newspaper  to  the  corner  of  Mr.  Francis's  desk, 
which  stood  between  the  desks  of  the  stenographer  and 
head  buyer. 

"There's  little  note  there — left-hand  corner,  bottom, 
first  page,"  said  Mr.  Remmick,  with  casualness  so  great 
that  it  could  have  indicated  nothing  but  considerable 
interest.  "Says  a  British  lieutenant,  the  Honorable 
fionald  Francis,  been  killed  in  action  qver  iji  France, 

81 


Second    Youth 


Says  he  was  sole  remaining  heir  of  the  Marquis  of  Some- 
thing or  Other.  Might  be  some  distant  relative  of  yours?" 

Mr.  Francis  turned  half  around  in  his  revolving  desk- 
chair,  looked  with  keen  interest  into  Mr.  Remmick's 
interested  eyes.  Both  of  them  had  read  romantic  novels, 
it  appeared,  and  both  knew  what  to  expect.  Both,  also, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  did  not  really  expect  it. 

"  Of  course '  Ronald '  is  slightly  different  from  *  Roland,' " 
said  Mr.  Francis,  and  faced  around  to  read  the  paragraph 
about  the  death  of  the  last  remaining  heir  to  the  Marquis 
of  Something  or  Other.  After  he  had  read  it  he  glanced 
up  to  meet  the  eyes  of  Miss  Barney  fixed  on  him  in  awe 
and  admiration.  Miss  Barney  had  turned  around  in  her 
chair  to  look  at  him.  Miss  Barney,  also,  it  appeared,  had 
read  romantic  novels. 

"  Of  course  nothing  will  ever  come  of  it.  Of  course  it's 
nothing  but  a  coincidence,"  said  Mr.  Francis,  with  a  quick 
return  of  his  natural  caution.  And  Mr.  Remmick  ad- 
mitted, dryly,  "  Oh  yes,  of  course."  But  it  was  plain  that 
Mr.  Francis,  in  some  peculiarly  thorough  way,  had  risen 
to  a  higher  status  in  that  office. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  admit  here,  in  order  not  to  arouse 
expectations  that  there  is  no  possibility  of  gratifying,  that 
Mr.  Francis  was  perfectly  right:  it  was  a  coincidence,  and 
nothing  ever  came  of  it.  The  chief  value  of  the  incident 
was  in  drawing  Mr.  Remmick's  attention  to  the  un- 
doubtedly aristocratic  appearance  and  gentlemanly  air  of 
Mr.  Francis.  That  was  of  almost  as  much  importance 
to  Mr.  Francis  as  if  he  had  been  revealed  as  the  sole  heir 
to  an  English  marquisate. 

"  Been  intending  to  ask  you  out  to  dinner  at  our  house, 
Francis,"  announced  the  buyer,  when  Mr.  Francis  had 
completed  the  assortment  of  his  invoices  and  was  rising 


Second    Youth 


for  his  morning  trip  to  the  top  floor.     "Must  be  rather 
lonely  for  you  there  in  that  boarding-house,  eh?" 

"Why,  yes — of  course  a  boarding-house — "  hesitated 
Mr.  Francis. 

"Come  out  next  Sunday — stay  for  dinner — won't  you?" 
"With  the  greatest  pleasure,  Mr.  Remmick!"  Francis 
agreed,  a  bit  more  gentlemanly  even  for  the  suspicion  that 
he  was  of  noble  blood,  and  went  to  his  day's  work  re- 
lieved of  any  danger  of  brooding  himself  sick  over  Miss 
Winton's  treatment  of  him. 


That  evening,  the  evening  of  Wednesday,  May  24th, 
Mr.  Francis  wrote  in  the  book: 


Even  though  I  never  see  her  again,  I  can  be  content. 
She  has  done  me  a  great  deal  of  good.  She  has  made  me 
read  and  think  about  things  that  were  good  for  me. 
And  there  is  no  reason  why  I  may  not  continue  to  love 
her,  even  though  I  do  not  see  her. 

It  is  better  to  love  one  woman  than  to  possess  a  thousand. 

MlDDLETON. 

This  sentiment,  which  I  found  quoted  in  a  book  on 
Philosophy,  is  probably  very  true.  By  looking  up  Middle- 
ton  I  find  that  he  was  a  great  rake  in  his  time.  He 
probably  knew  what  he  was  talking  about. 

It  was  very  interesting  about  the  young  British  lieu- 
tenant dying  in  France.  War  must  be  a  very  peculiar 
and  terrible  thing.  I  have  perhaps  been  too  busy  with 
other  things  to  think  much  about  the  war  except  that  it 

has  shut  off  most  of  the  French  silks.     Mr.  Remmick 

83 


Second    Youth 


will  probably  not  go  to  France  in  August  to  purchase 
silks  as  usual,  which  I  somewhat  regret.  I  had  rather 
looked  forward  to  the  joy  of  being  at  the  head  of  the 
department,  even  in  name  only,  while  he  was  away.  I 
must  read  more  newspapers  and  find  out  about  the  war. 
I  have  perhaps  been  too  interested  in  Philosophy,  es- 
pecially in  Spencer.  A  man  can  easily  become  narrow 
when  his  time  is  limited  and  he  is  very  much  interested  in 
things  he  didn't  find  out  when  he  ought  to  have  found  them 
out,  when  he  was  young. 

She  may  not  be  in  again  for  months,  she  may  never  be  in 
again,  and  I  might  be  no  better  off  if  she  came  in  every  day. 

While  I  was  out  for  a  long  walk  from  which  I  have  just 
returned  this  evening  I  walked  past  her  house  on  West 
End  Avenue.  I  could  not  forget  the  address,  and  I 
thought  it  would  do  no  harm  if  I  walked  past  her  home. 
It  is  a  beautiful  place. 

I  walked  past  several  times.  It  is  a  beautiful  terra- 
cotta elevator  apartment  with  trees  in  front,  on  a  pleasant 
elevation,  with  Riverside  Drive  and  the  Hudson  only  a 
short  block  away.  There  was  an  elevator-boy  in  a  white 
uniform  standing  in  the  big  white  marble  doorway.  I 
kept  on  the  far  side  of  the  street.  I  feared  she  might 
by  some  chance  come  out  and  see  me,  which  would  per- 
haps have  been  unfortunate. 

I  wonder  if  she  lives  in  that  huge  place  all  alone,  a 
widow.  But  I  dare  say  she  does  not  suffer  much,  as  Mrs. 
Benson  does,  for  the  lack  of  some  one  to  brighten  her  dull 
life.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  have  been  avoiding  Mrs. 
Benson  lately.  I  am  glad  to  say  she  has  not  tried  to 
prevent  me  from  doing  it.  Perhaps  she  has  come  to 
dislike  me  again.  I  notice  that  she  scarcely  ever  speaks 
to  me  even  at  Sunday  dinner. 

84 


Second    Youth 


Probably  Miss  Winton  has  no  lack  of  persons  to  brighten 
her  life.  It  seems  unfair  that  some  people  should  have 
so  many  others  anxious  to  serve  them,  while  others  have 
so  few,  and  yet  it  has  to  be  that  way,  it  seems.  I  could 
hardly  force  myself  to  feel  otherwise  than  as  I  do  about 
Mrs.  B.  and  her.  Anyway,  I  can  say  I  have  been  in  love 
once  in  my  life,  and  nothing  can  take  that  away  from  me 
nor  make  its  glory  less. 

Have  some  backbone.  Brace  up,  Francis,  old  horse.  The 
worst  may  be  yet  to  come.  I  am  the  assistant  buyer  of 
silks  in  the  far-and-away  best  department  store  in  New 
York  City.  I  do  not  feel  quite  so  humble  and  crushed  as 
I  have  often  felt  before.  And  I  think,  too,  that  Mr. 
Remmick  thinks  well  of  me.  I  am  glad  of  this.  He 
is  known  as  one  of  the  shrewdest  men  in  the  silk  business. 

I  shall  be  glad  to  go  to  his  house  to  dinner.  I  shall  have 
to  give  some  thought  to  the  way  I  act.  A  boarding- 
house  may  not  be  the  best  place  to  learn  manners.  I  shall 
be  glad  to  meet  his  wife.  I  wonder  if  he  has  any  descend- 
ants, sons  or  daughters? 

Under  the  date  of  Thursday,  May  25th,  Mr.  Francis 
wrote: 

Mr.  Remmick  told  me  to-day  that  Mr.  Prince,  whose 
place  I  now  fill,  was  much  worse  and  not  expected  to  live 
more  than  a  few  days.  There  is  something  terrible  about 
this,  and  yet  he  has  passed  the  threescore  years  and  ten 
allotted  to  man  by  Providence,  whether  wisely  or  not  I  am 
unable  to  state,  especially  after  reading  Spencer.  Life 
does  not  seem  such  a  simple  thing  to  me  as  before  I  read 

Spencer,  and  yet  I  admire  it  more.    He  has  a  five-thou> 

85 


Second    Y outh 


sand-dollar  life-insurance  policy,  so  his  dependents  will  not 
suffer. 

Mr.  Remmick  was  much  disturbed  by  the  news;  very 
sad.  He  said  he  himself  was  getting  along  in  years,  sixty- 
seven  next  August,  and  he  was  afraid,  in  spite  of  all  he 
could  do,  his  rheumatism  would  develop  complications. 
He  said  he  suspected  it  might  not  be  long  before  he  would 
be  leaving  McDavitt's  silk  department  in  my  hands, 
and  he  was  pleased  to  say  he  was  satisfied  the  traditions  of 
McDavitt's  silk  department  for  being  the  foremost  in  the 
city,  perhaps  in  the  world,  would  be  in  good  hands. 

His  words  and  the  way  he  said  them  brought  the  tears 
to  my  eyes.  I  tried  to  assure  him  that  he  would  be  hold- 
ing the  helm  for  a  long  time  yet,  steady  and  true,  as  in  the 
past.  It  is  a  terrible  thing  when  a  man  has  to  give  up  the 
work  to  which  he  has  devoted  his  whole  life. 

He  said, — You've  got  a  d — n  fine  personality,  Francis; 
there's  something  in  old  blood,  and  you  can't  get  around 
it.  I  was  very  much  moved.  And  yet,  of  course,  ac- 
cording to  Spencer,  every  man's  blood  is  just  as  old  as 
every  other  man's,  although  I  knew,  of  course,  Mr.  Rem- 
mick was  referring  to  my  old  English  ancestry.  I  wonder 
if  I  shall  ever  hear  anything  as  a  result  of  the  death  of 
that  unfortunate  lieutenant.  I  shall  not  permit  myself 
to  think  about  it.  I  have  too  often  had  golden  dreams 
that  turned  ashes  in  my  mouth,  and  I  am  getting  tired 
of  the  taste  of  them.  I  don't  believe  I  would  be  as  much 
of  a  success  as  an  English  marquis  as  I  am  as  a  silk  man, 
anyway. 

Stopped  in  at  the  library  on  my  way  home  and  got  a  new 
book,  Is  There  Anything  New  Under  the  Sun?  by  Edwin 
Bjorkman.  It  is  a  book  of  essays  and  I  read  the  one  with 
the  same  title  as  the  book  while  resting  in  the  library. 

86 


Second    Youth 


It  is  highly  philosophical,  and  yet  put  into  clear,  simple 
language.  It  reminded  me  again  of  the  silk  and  the  silk- 
worms. The  author  sees  the  dingy  little  gray  worms,  and 
yet  he  sees  the  silk,  too.  I  am  glad  I  happened  to  get 
hold  of  it. 

I  happened  to  get  hold  of  it  because  the  librarian  whose 
turn  it  was  to  wait  till  closing-time  this  evening  recom- 
mended it  to  me.  She  is  a  nice  young  lady,  with  most 
sincere  brown  eyes.  I'd  noticed  her  before.  She  said 
she'd  noticed  I'd  been  reading  a  great  deal  about  Philoso- 
phy, and  wondered  whether  I'd  read  Bjorkman's  book. 
She  said  it  was  optimistic,  and  yet  it  didn't  have  any 
sickly  sentiment;  it  was  solid.  After  I'd  read  the  first 
essay,  I  told  her  I  agreed  with  her. 

"Are  you  a  student?"  she  asked.  Hereafter  I  shall  use 
quotation  marks.  I  have  been  perhaps  too  careless  in 
my  previous  entries. 

I  said,  "No,  I'm  not  a  student — merely  an  employee  in 
a  department  store." 

She  said,  "Another  proof  of  the  disappearance  of  the 
dividing  line  between  the  masses  and  the  classes." 

I  understood  from  this  that  she  thought  I  looked  as 
if  I  might  belong  to  the  classes,  whereas,  of  course,  I 
belong  to  the  masses.  However,  I  did  not  pursue  the 
subject. 

We  talked  for  some  little  time  about  various  matters. 
It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  and  there  was  no  one  else  in  the 
library  besides  ourselves.  She  said  she  would  look  out 
for  other  books  in  my  line.  I  was  much  attracted  to  her. 
She  had  beautiful  hands;  her  fingers  were  almost  ecru, 
I  should  say.  I  think  I  would  have  been  more  attracted 
by  her  if  I  hadn't  been  forced  to  think  of  another  even 

while  I  was  talking  to  her.     A  man  is  very  peculiar  in 

37 


Second    Youth 


many  ways.  I  was  not  at  all  indifferent  to  her,  much  to 
my  surprise. 

I  know  in  my  heart  which  is  my  ideal,  and  a  man  had 
better  be  true  to  his  ideal  even  if  he  suffers  for  it.  I  do 
not  understand  why  she  should  be  my  ideal  altogether; 
I  have  an  idea  that  it  is  something  different  from  just  her 
beauty  and  culture  and  all  that.  But  I  know  it  to  be  a 
fact,  however  I  have  not  been  able  to  keep  from  feeling 
momentarily  about  the  nice  girl  in  the  library,  and  also 
lately  a  little  bit  about  Miss  Barney,  who  is  really  very 
pretty,  and  also  Alas  about  Mrs.  Benson.  I  feel  guilty 
because  I  have  not  again  asked  Mrs.  Benson  to  go  any- 
where with  me,  nor  permitted  her  to  ask  me,  nor  again 
mentioned  the  matter  of  the  silk  dress.  But  I  realize 
that  it  is  incumbent  upon  me  to  keep  my  promise  to  her, 
and  I  shall  do  so. 

Met  at  dinner  a  new  boarder,  a  young  man,  Mr.  Charles 
McNab,  who  works  on  a  newspaper.  His  place  was  next 
to  mine  at  the  table,  and  we  had  quite  a  little  talk.  I 
enjoyed  his  talk.  He  uses  a  great  deal  of  slang,  and  has  a 
lively  sense  of  humor.  I  sometimes  enjoy  slang  in  others, 
although  I  do  not  care  for  it  myself.  I  find  that  when  I 
begin  to  use  slang  I  do  not  seem  to  think  so  well  about 
what  I  am  saying.  I  am  more  interested  in  the  slang 
than  in  what  I  wish  to  express. 

He  and  Whiggam  and  I  passed  quite  a  little  repartee, 
although  both  he  and  Whiggam  are  far  better  at  it  than 
I  am.  It  livened  up  the  table.  There  has  not  been 
much  talk  of  late;  Mrs.  Benson  has  seemed  unusually 
silent,  especially. 

This  evening  she  suggested  that  Mr.  McNab  and  Whig- 
gam  and  I  and  she  play  whist  after  dinner,  but  I  said  I 
feared  I  would  have  to  read  and  do  a  little  writing. 

88 


Second    Youth 


"Oh,  are  you  a  writer?"  asked  Mr.  McNab. 

I  said  that  I  was  only  a  silk  salesman,  but  I  read  a  good 
deal. 

"He's  the  assistant  silk-buyer  in  McDavitt's  Depart- 
ment Store,"  said  Mrs.  Benson.  "That's  a  good  deal 
better  than  any  of  the  writers  I  ever  knew." 

She  said  it  sharply.     She  can  be  sharp  at  times. 

Mr.  McNab  laughed  heartily,  and  said:  "I  agree  with 
you,  Mrs.  Benson!  My  acquaintance  with  writers  has 
brought  me  to  much  your  opinion." 

Well,  here  it  is  nearly  midnight,  and  if  I  keep  stringing 
out  my  entries  like  this  I  shall  have  to  get  me  a  new 
Journal  long  before  the  two  years  are  up  that  I  expected 
this  one  to  last  me.  But  I  never  had  so  many  interesting 
experiences  to  write  about.  I  have  quit  noting  down  each 
day's  weather  as  I  did  some  months  ago.  My  life  seems 
lately  to  have  become  full  of  so  many  matters  that  at  times 
my  head  fairly  swims.  It  never  rains  but  it  pours.  Many 
things  have  happened  to  me  lately. 

In  thinking  about  Miss  Winton  to-day,  how  little  I 
really  know  about  her  and  how  much  I  long  to  know,  I 
thought  of  this  bit  of  poetry: 

Since  Knowledge  is  but  Sorrow's  spy, 
It  is  not  safe  to  know. 

— SIB  WM.  DAVENANT. 

Got  answer  this  morning  to  letter  wrote  my  uncle  in 
Brooklyn.  He  says  neither  of  the  boys  want  to  go  any- 
where but  to  Manual  Training  High  School,  which  is 
free,  and  he  wouldn't  let  them  if  they  did.  But  if  I 
feel  I  owe  him  anything  in  return  for  the  years  he  shel- 
tered me  under  his  roof  when  I  was  cast  out  on  the  world, 
a  check  would  be  acceptable.  About  $875  he  says  he 

7  89 


Second    Youth 


figures  I  cost  him  altogether,  but  for  $500  he'd  be  glad  to 
call  it  square  and  thank  me  deeply  besides. 

It  seems  most  reasonable,  considering  the  three  years 
I  lived  there.  I  now  have  $1,185  in  the  savings-bank, 
and  I'll  send  him  the  money  as  soon  as  I  have  time  to 
draw  it  out  and  have  a  check  made  to  him.  For  the 
first  time  in  my  life  I  begin  to  count  my  time.  I  have 
more  things  to  do  than  time  to  do  them  in.  It  will  hurt 
me  to  draw  out  that  $500,  saved  so  carefully  through  a 
number  of  years,  and  I  might  as  well  admit  it;  still,  my 
account  is  going  up  faster  now  than  ever  before,  $15 
every  week  at  least,  and  often  more.  To-morrow  will  be 
a  busy  day  at  the  store,  and  there  are  numerous  demands 
on  my  attention  outside.  I  will  make  a  list  of  the  things 
I  ought  to  do,  get  a  memo.-book  perhaps  to-morrow. 
They  are  too  numerous  to  mention  here. 

He  made  the  list  on  a  separate  slip  of  paper  and  tucked 
it  between  the  pages  of  the  book.  The  list  ran: 

New  shirt  for  Remmick's  Sunday. 

Read  up  on  etiquette  (should  you  shake  hands  high  as 
I  saw  two  women  do  in  store  to-day,  or  low  like  Mr.  R.?) 

Look  up  oyster  silk  for  Mrs.  B. 

Get  new  necktie  and  socks  for  R's  Sunday. 

Contribute  $1  to  clerks'  insurance  fund  and  picnic. 

Draw  $500  for  Brooklyn  matter. 

Lend  Whiggam  $5.  Shall  I?  He  has  not  repaid  the 
other  one. 

Offer  to  take  Mrs.  B.  to  the  Empire  again.  Might  as 
well  get  this  over  with,  and  she  defended  me  kindly  this 

evening. 

90 


Second    Youth 


Have  trousers  pressed. 

Drop  in  at  library  in  eve.  She  said  she'd  be  there  till 
closing  again  to-night,  and  I  promised  I'd  drop  in  and  tell 
her  what  I  thought  about  the  rest  of  Is  There  Anything 
New  Under  the  Sun?  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  and  talk  with 
her  again.  But  I'm  forgetting  that  this  isn't  my  Journal. 


Entries  that  touched  upon  Miss  Winton  were  con- 
spicuously absent  from  Mr.  Francis's  list,  but  her  per- 
sonality was  back  of  them,  intimately  responsible,  to- 
gether with  Mr.  Price's  illness,  for  the  frequency  with 
which  things  were  beginning  to  happen  to  him.  Things 
were  beginning  to  happen  to  him  with  astonishing  fre- 
quency. 

He  was  beginning  to  show  distinct  signs  of  buds  at  last, 
like  the  winter-delayed  tree  he  so  much  resembled,  and 
various  animals  and  insects  who  had  taken  no  notice  of 
him  during  his  hibernating  stage  were  awakening  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  worth  while.  He  welcomed  both  ad- 
mirers and  pilferers;  perhaps  the  pilferers  fertilized  him 
the  most.  He  was  full  of  frank  enjoyment  of  their  in- 
terest, of  vague  wonder  that  they  should  find  him  worthy 
of  attention.  At  the  same  time,  he  could  not  continue 
oblivious  of  the  fact  that  he  was  becoming  something  of  a 
personage.  Along  with  the  other  changes  in  him,  his 
chin  tended  to  rise  a  few  degrees,  his  back  to  give  over  its 
old  convexity  for  a  curve  that  was  at  times,  even  when  he 
was  not  on  his  dignity,  positively  concave. 

He  thrived,  holding  fast  to  the  vital  feeling  for  Miss 
Winton  that  had  been  the  largest  single  factor  in  his 
blossoming.  He  thought  of  her  when  he  looked  into  his 

mirror  in  the  morning  and  noticed  his  improved  appear- 

91 


Second    Youth 


ance  through  shortened  sideburns;  he  was  more  careful 
than  ever  about  the  hands  which  she  had  once  called 
"wonderful." 

He  thought  of  her  while  he  devoured  serious  reading 
after  his  working-hours :  but  for  her  mention  of  the  word 
"idealist,"  he  would  never  have  known  half  the  interest- 
ing words  and  facts  that  he  was  now  pouring  into  his 
thirsty  soul. 

He  thought  of  her  while  he  ate,  and  was  careful  not  to 
drop  any  food,  to  handle  knife  and  fork  daintily.  He 
thought  of  her  while  he  took  his  morning  sarsaparilla 
and  exercised  with  his  dumb-bells. 

While  he  checked  up  bills  and  invoices  he  thought  of 
her,  and  was  more  careful  for  the  thought.  And  as  for 
his  increasingly  magnificent  silk  displays,  the  work  of  his 
own  hands  and  brain,  he  dedicated  them  to  her  as  sin- 
cerely as  ever  novelist  dedicated  novel,  or  poet  poem,  to 
the  lady  of  his  heart. 

The  time  since  that  eventful  Thursday,  April  27th, 
when  he  had  last  seen  her,  had  widened  into  weeks,  into  a 
month,  with  an  increase  rather  than  a  diminution  of  his 
devotional  regard.  She  was  with  him  always,  absent 
though  she  might  be. 

Her  physical  absence  did  not  trouble  him,  perhaps,  as 
much  as  he  sometimes  made  himself  believe;  good  idealist 
that  he  was,  the  ethereal  Miss  Winton  of  his  consciousness 
satisfied  him  more  fully  than  he  realized.  He  held  fre- 
quent consultations  with  her,  consulted  her  on  points  of 
etiquette,  grammar,  ethics,  psychology,  philosophy,  any- 
thing else  that  his  stimulated  mind  was  working  over. 
He  managed  to  get  her  viewpoint,  too,  in  a  way  that 
would  have  left  her  gasping  if  she  could  have  known  of 
his  almost  clairvoyant  interpretation  of  her.  If  he  had 


Second    Youth 


seen  her  oftener  he  would  have  been  forced  to  act  more 
and  think  less — a  cart-before-the-horse  performance  that 
would  have  been  bad  for  him. 

He  was  so  terrifically  busy  growing  into  a  man  that 
association  with  his  tutelary  genius  on  a  less  idealistic 
basis  could  not  but  have  retarded  his  growth.  He  was 
making  up  for  lost  time;  he  read,  he  reasoned,  he  dis- 
cussed, he  exercised,  he  met  people,  he  was  diligent  in  his 
business.  Nor  did  he  neglect  the  making  of  the  outer 
man.  Even  before  the  recent  impetus  given  by  his  com- 
ing visit  to  the  Remmicks,  his  springtime  fancy  had 
lightly  turned  to  thoughts  of  clothes. 

It  struck  him,  next  morning  as  he  was  going  to  work, 
that  nearly  all  the  well-dressed  men  were  wearing  straw 
hats.  He  had  never  worn  a  straw  hat  in  his  life,  but  that 
evening  he  wore  one  home.  The  paper  bag  in  which  he 
carried  the  sacred  black  fedora  bore  the  name  and  regal- 
looking  crest  of  one  of  Fifth  Avenue's  most  exclusive 
haberdashers.  Francis  did  not  carry  this  bag  so  that 
the  regal-looking  crest  was  concealed  from  any  one  who 
cared  to  notice  it. 

Two  vital  discoveries  were  borne  in  upon  him  while  he 
stood  admiring  himself  and  his  new  purchase  before  the 
mirror  that  evening  after  dinner — the  straw  hat  did  not 
go  well  with  the  black  cutaway  coat,  and  the  black  cut- 
away coat  had  a  suggestion  of  something  faintly  like  his 
late  sideburns,  anyway.  During  the  next  day's  noon 
hour  he  consulted  with  a  tailor,  and  went  back  to  work 
excited  by  the  assurance  that  his  ordered  suit  would  be 
stylish,  yet  conservative,  chic,  yet  in  perfect  good  taste. 
It  was  to  be  ready  by  the  following  Saturday  evening, 
just  in  time  for  his  engagement  at  the  Remmicks'. 

To  comfort  himself  in  the  mean  time,  Francis  laid  out 

93 


Second    Youth 


eighteen  dollars,  formerly  more  than  a  week's  salary,  in 
shoes,  shirts,  socks,  underwear,  and  neckties.  All  were 
of  excellent  quality  and  all,  every  clerk  assured  him,  were 
precisely  what  a  gentleman  of  his  distinguished  appear- 
ance and  quiet  tastes  should  wear.  The  shoes  were  tan 
oxfords  of  a  pinked  and  pronounced  spring  last,  one  pair 
of  tan  socks  had  oyster  clockings,  and  among  the  black 
and  black-and-white  ties  was  one  of  a  delicate  fawn. 

He  managed  to  wait  until  after  the  Saturday  dinner 
before  locking  himself  into  his  room  to  don  his  new  glories. 
Arrayed  in  the  new  suit,  new  tan  oxfords,  clocked  socks, 
and  fawn  tie,  he  divided  an  uncomfortable  evening  be- 
tween parades  before  his  mirror  and  intervals  of  despond- 
ent contemplation  in  the  willow  rocker.  He  wore  the 
outfit  Sunday  morning,  took  it  off  for  luncheon,  wore  it 
again  most  of  Sunday  afternoon,  and  still  he  was  du- 
bious about  it.  Finally  he  threw  it  off  in  favor  of  his 
every-day  clothes. 

"You'll  have  to  take  your  time  about  all  this  new  busi- 
ness, Francis,  old  horse,"  he  admonished  his  double  in  the 
mirror.  "Rome  wasn't  built  in  a  day." 

He  felt  more  dressed,  more  respectable,  in  the  solemn 
length  of  the  black  cutaway.  The  short-tailed  coat  of  the 
new  summer  suit  had  made  him  feel  downright  bashful. 

"Wear  new  suit  to  work  to-morrow,  perhaps,"  he  con- 
cluded. "If  there's  no  riot  or  anything — tan  oxfords 
next  day.  But  I  fear  it  was  not  altogether  wise  to  invest 
in  that  fawn  cravat." 

He  eyed  his  familiar  appearance  with  the  faint  be- 
ginnings of  mistrust. 

"I  did  look  more — more  like  other  men  in  the  new 
things,"  he  muttered. 

Slowly  the  realization  was  dawning  on  him  that  the  old 

94 


Second    Youth 


outfit,  also,  was  unsatisfactory.  The  long-tailed  coat 
seemed  unusually  long  after  the  short-tailed  one.  In  fact, 
the  stiff  black  cutaway  made  him  look  a  little  like  a 
clothing-store  dummy. 

"This  is  strange — very  strange!"  he  commented  under 
his  breath,  turning  so  that  he  could  survey  his  lines  in 
profile.  "I  can't  stand  either  of  them!  What  a  di- 
lemma!" 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  gently  smoothed 
his  hair. 

"I  must  have  cut  quite  a  ridiculous  figure  before  her," 
he  said,  "in  this  apparel — and  with  my  sideburns.  I  do 
not  wonder  that  she  found  me — humorous!" 

Said  Francis,  with  a  healthy  note  of  animosity  in  his 
voice,  "And  I  always  wondered  why  she  seemed  always  a 
little — a  little  amused  by  me!" 

He  took  a  dignified  turn  or  two  around  the  room. 

"Brace  up,  Francis,  old  horse!"  he  ordered.  "You've 
got  some  new  clothes — and  they're  not  far  from  right — and 
you've  got  the  wherewithal  to  purchase  more — and  you're 
going  to  learn  to  wear  them!" 

So  he  arose  in  haste,  since  it  was  nearing  five  o'clock 
and  he  had  decided  that  it  would  be  proper  to  arrive  in 
Flatbush  about  six,  and  redonned  all  the  finery  that  he 
had  laid  aside.  He  stopped  at  nothing;  even  the  fawn 
tie  was  disposed  in  a  proper  four-in-hand  and  ornamented 
with  a  little  medallion  stick-pin  that  had  been  his  father's. 

With  great  calmness  and  determination  he  walked 
down-stairs  and  knocked  on  the  slightly  opened  door  of  the 
front  parlor. 

"  Come  in !"  called  Mrs.  Benson,  and  burst  out,  as  soon 
as  he  opened  the  door  enough  to  show  himself:  "Oh,  it's 

you,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Francis !    I  was  just  thinking  about  you, 

95 


Second    Youth 


all  alone  in  your  room  all  day.  Oh,  say — why,  you  look 
like  a  regular  Fifth  Avenue  swell!  Did  you  put  them  on 
to  show  me?  Come  right  on  into  the  light  where  I — " 

"I  merely  stopped  to  tell  you,"  interrupted  Mr.  Francis, 
since  there  seemed  no  likelihood  of  a  natural  interruption, 
"that  I  sha'n't  be  in  for  dinner  this  evening." 

With  a  polite  bow  and  smile  and  some  haste  he  made 
his  way  outside,  skipped  down  the  front  steps,  and  skipped 
for  the  space  of  two  houses.  After  that  he  dignifiedly 
strolled  over  to  the  Fourteenth  Street  Subway  station  and 
took  a  Brooklyn  train.  Not  once  did  he  feel  ashamed 
before  the  eyes  of  any  one  because  of  his  new  clothes. 
Once  more,  spurred  on  by  the  lady  of  his  heart,  he  had 
won  a  famous  victory. 

He  reached  the  Remmick  house  on  the  stroke  of  six, 
was  ushered  by  Mr.  Remmick  into  the  big,  brac-a-brac- 
laden  front  parlor,  and  found  himself  meeting  Mrs. 
Remmick  and  three  Misses  Remmick.  There  was  safety 
in  the  number  of  the  three  Misses  Remmick;  the  presence 
at  once  of  the  summery,  fluffy,  smiling  three  of  them  gave 
him  no  time  to  notice  any  one  in  particular. 

"It  has  been  some  time  since  I  entered  a  house  with  a 
yard  before  it,"  he  told  Mrs.  Remmick,  which  pleasantly 
gave  her  an  opportunity  to  contrast  the  joys  of  life  in 
Flatbush  with  the  overcrowding  and  unsanitary  arrange- 
ments in  Manhattan.  While  Mr.  Remmick  showed  him 
souvenirs  picked  up  in  France,  Mr.  Francis  steadfastly 
put  the  thought  of  his  own  clothes  out  of  mind  and  de- 
voted himself  to  chatty  questions  and  remarks,  as  recom- 
mended by  Mrs.  Harland  on  Etiquette. 

He  greatly  enjoyed  the  dinner,  and  had  the  intelligence 
to  tell  Mrs.  Remmick  so;  one  didn't  get  such  bread,  he 

said,  in  a  boarding-house. 

96 


Second    Youth 


"Helen  makes  all  our  bread;  and  you  shall  sample 
some  of  her  angel-food  with  your  strawberries,"  Mrs. 
Remmick  told  him,  smiling  mother-pride  at  one  of  her 
daughters.  Francis  naturally  turned  to  smile,  too. 

Miss  Helen  was  sitting  almost  opposite,  and  her  face 
was  turned  in  profile  as  she  spoke  to  the  patriarchal  old 
man  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Francis's  smile  faded. 
Miss  Helen's  profile  was  like,  was  very  much  like,  that  of 
another.  And  the  expression  on  her  face,  just  then,  re- 
minded Mr.  Francis  with  stinging  certainty  of  the  expres- 
sion on  that  other's  face  when  she  had  said,  "Perhaps  I'll 
see  you  again  some  time;  but  certainly  not  soon." 

In  the  gloom  of  the  parlor  Mr.  Francis  had  not  noticed 
any  resemblance  between  Miss  Helen  and  that  other, 
but  the  bright  light  of  the  electric  dining-lamp  over  the 
middle  of  the  table  impressed  it  dazzlingly  on  his  mind. 
He  bent  his  head  low  over  his  plate  and  prodded  at  the 
slab  of  roast  beef  between  his  creamed  potatoes  and  new 
peas. 

"Helen,  Mr.  Francis  has  been  saying  nice  things  about 
your  bread,"  Mrs.  Remmick  told  the  girl.  "You  missed 
something!" 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry  I  didn't  hear.  Won't  you  please  say 
it  over  again?  You  know  I'm  very  proud  of  my  abilities 
as  a  housewife!"  said  Miss  Helen,  favoring  him  with  the 
pretty,  innocuous  smile  of  sweet-and-seventeen. 

"  I  was  just  saying  one  didn't  get  such  bread  in  a  board- 
ing-house," declared  Mr.  Francis,  sternly,  busy  with  his 
meat  and  potatoes.  "I  was  just  saying  it  was  delicious 
— splendid — very  good,  you  know." 

He  had  a  distraught  air,  for  his  mind  was  beginning  to 
revolve  a  problem.  He  wondered  why  he  had  never 

thought  of  it  before.     It  was  really  a  problem  of  the 

97 


Second    Youth 


greatest  importance.  Why  had  she  looked  like  that,  in 
that  vague,  wistful,  half-appealing  way,  when  she  told 
him  she  might  see  him  again  some  time,  but  certainly  not 
soon? 

After  that  Mr.  Francis  was  not  a  success  as  a  guest. 


vn 


DEEP  PROBLEMS,  A  NEW  CANE,  AND  A  CATASTROPHIC 
ATTEMPT  TO  SECURE  INFORMATION 

"TTELEN  REMMICK,"  muttered  Mr.  Francis,  try- 

-•-  A  ing  the  words  on  some  touchstone  in  his  mind. 
"Helen  Remmick.  Harmonious  name,  and  in  good  har- 
mony with  that  nice  girl.  Very  peculiar." 

He  was  standing  in  the  midst  of  McDavitt's  silk  de- 
partment, raptly  contemplating  a  pyramid  of  dazzling 
silk  messaline  that  he  had  erected  to  serve  as  a  sort  of 
radiating  center  for  the  quieter  tones  of  the  department. 
He  took  off  his  gold-rimmed  glasses,  wiped  them  on  his 
handkerchief,  and  replaced  them  on  his  sizable  nose. 

"  Now  there's  a  chance  for  me,"  he  said,  mumbling  the 
words  through  his  nose,  cocking  his  head  at  the  cerise 
messaline.  "Very  peculiar.  Helen  Remmick.  I  feel 
I  might  have  a  chance  there.  I  felt  it  several  times  when 
she  looked  at  me,  and  I  felt  it  when  she  shook  hands  with 
me  good  night.  She's  beautiful. 

"Of  course  Mrs.  Benson  is  more  my  own  age.  I  think 
I  would  have  a  chance  with  Mrs.  Benson — I  feel  it.  I 
ought  to  get  married;  every  good  citizen  ought  to.  It 
is  not  good  for  man  to  live  alone.  And  yet  why  is  it  that 
Miss  Remmick,  whom  I  admire  most,  only  inspires  me  to 
think  of  another?  I  do  not  know  why;  I  merely  know 

what  I  want.     Very  peculiar." 

99 


Second    Youth 


After  this  monologue,  which  he  spoke  to  himself  and 
which  he  would  doubtless  write  in  the  book  later,  he 
strolled  off  through  the  department.  Half  a  dozen  clerks 
were  putting  the  last  of  the  black  farmers'-satin  dust- 
covers  on  the  long  tables  of  silk. 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening.  Francis  had 
returned  after  supper,  as  he  was  accustomed  to  do  once 
or  twice  a  week,  to  superintend  the  rearrangement  of  the 
silks  on  display.  Whenever  there  was  a  thorough  change, 
the  assistant  buyer  and  a  number  of  clerks  "stayed 
over."  For  this  extra  service  the  clerks  received  thirty- 
five  cents  extra,  and  Mr.  Francis  fifty  cents  as  "supper 
money."  It  was  a  sign  of  the  development  in  him  that, 
on  recent  occasions,  he  had  spent  the  entire  fifty  cents  for 
food,  whereas,  when  he  had  received  thirty-five,  he  had 
always  saved  ten. 

The  clerks  departed  in  a  straggly  row,  and  Francis  fol- 
lowed them  into  the  freight-elevator,  the  only  one  that 
was  still  running,  and  out  into  the  quiet,  misty  glare  of 
Thirty-fourth  Street.  Slowly  he  strolled  along  the  street; 
slowly,  undecidedly,  with  head  that  tended  to  droop  as 
if  with  an  overburden  of  thoughts. 

Where  Thirty-fourth  Street  debouched  into  the  swirl 
and  glare  and  hectic  life  of  Broadway  he  stopped.  The 
way  home  would  have  taken  him  down-town,  but  he 
turned,  at  last,  and  walked  up  toward  Times  Square. 

Among  other  things,  he  wondered  why  he  was  so 
lonesome  and  melancholy,  why  she  had  looked  at  him  in 
that  way  on  their  last  parting,  whether  Helen  Remmick 
was  kindly  disposed  toward  him,  and  if  so,  why;  also 
whether  he  ought  to  marry  Mrs.  Benson,  or  anybody  else, 
whether  there  was  anything  he  could  do  to  raise  himself 
in  Miss  Winton's  eyes,  how  much  it  cost  to  support  her, 

100 


Second    Youth 


whether  a  man  of  his  age  was  ever  happy  with  a  girl  like 
Helen  Remmick,  whether  a  girl  like  Helen  Remmick 
could  ever  be  happy  with  a  man  like  him,  whether  a  man 
really  ought  to  get  married  when  he'd  done  without  it  so 
long,  and  whether  it  wouldn't  be  a  good  idea  to  go  to  some 
one  who'd  had  some  experience  in  marriage  and  ask  all 
about  it. 

His  moving  reflection,  in  the  window  of  a  jewelry-store 
darkened  for  the  night,  persuaded  him  to  stop  for  a  short 
look  at  himself.  He  wondered  what  manner  of  man  he 
really  was,  what  sort  of  thing  walked  around  with  his 
name  attached  to  it,  and  his  thoughts  inside. 

He  stood  and  stared  at  himself  in  the  glass  as  if  he  had 
suddenly  become  a  stranger  to  himself.  He  rather  liked 
the  effect.  The  neat,  dark,  summer  suit,  the  coat-tails 
of  which  a  few  days'  wear  had  made  comfortable  to  his 
body  and  modesty,  became  his  slim,  trim  figure;  his  straw 
hat  sat  his  head  as  if  he  had  worn  straw  hats  all  his  life; 
his  eye-glasses  and  long,  serious  face  gave  him  an  intel- 
lectual air. 

"I  have  my  suspicions  that  you  look  a  lot  wiser  than 
you  are!"  he  told  his  peculiarly  dissociated  double  in  the 
glass.  "You  ought  to  be  at  home  now,  reading,  improv- 
ing your  mind,  instead  of  dawdling  around  like  this!" 

But  he  continued,  nevertheless,  to  stroll  up  the  great 
thoroughfare.  As  he  walked  he  got  on  more  intimate 
terms  with  himself;  he  expanded  under  the  feeling  that 
he  was  more  a  part  of  it,  more  like  other  men,  belonged 
to  it,  as  he  had  never  belonged  before.  After  all,  the 
creature  strolling  along  with  the  new  summer  suit,  the 
new  hat,  and  the  host  of  clashing  ideas  was  himself;  and 
that  creature  had  won  a  fair  place  in  the  world  about  him 

— he  could  lift  up  his  head  with  most  of  them!    The  out- 

101 


Second    Youth 


side  of  him,  that  most  essential  basis,  did  not  suffer  by 
comparison  with  the  outsides  of  the  men  he  passed; 
and,  as  for  their  insides,  perhaps  if  they  were  all  turned 
inside  out  together,  the  creature  called  R.  F.  Francis 
might  not  suffer  by  comparison  even  then.  He  measured 
the  characters  of  his  fellow-strollers  with  a  cool,  level 
eye,  judged  them  with  the  intuition  of  a  born  poet  and 
philosopher,  and  felt  no  inferiority  before  them. 

Perhaps,  he  decided,  he  was  inferior  in  one  thing:  most 
of  them,  especially  those  whose  faces  and  clothes  he  liked 
best,  were  carrying  canes.  He  had  a  sudden  feeling  for  a 
cane,  to  feel  its  companionable  handle  in  his  hand,  to  hear 
its  companionable  tapping  on  the  pavement  beside  him. 
There  would  be  a  comrade  for  his  loneliness  in  a  good 
cane! 

He  thought  he  remembered  having  seen  a  cane-and- 
umbrella  store  up  near  Forty-first  Street;  he  thought  he 
remembered  having  seen  it  open  in  the  evenings.  He  hur- 
ried along  to  the  place;  his  memory  had  been  as  exact 
as  usual.  Carefully  he  picked  a  plain,  sizable,  crook- 
handled  Malacca  stick,  tipped  with  horn,  from  the  hun- 
dreds on  display  in  the  show-windows,  dignifiedly  he  went 
in,  and  crisply  he  purchased  it.  Nor  did  the  clerk  venture 
beyond  one  slight  hint  in  recommending  a  gorgeous  gold- 
handled  affair. 

Good — he  had  a  cane!  He  realized  that  he  had  always 
wanted  a  cane  from  the  way  in  which  his  fingers  thrilled 
to  the  touch  of  the  smooth,  curved  handle. 

"There  is  something  about  a  cane,"  Francis  told  him- 
self, tapping  the  unobtrusive  horn  tip  of  it  on  the  side- 
walk. "Something  very  interesting." 

He  observed  how  the  other  men  managed  their  canes, 

and  in  the  space  of  two  blocks  he  was  displaying  his  new 

102 


Second    Youth 


accomplishment  with  all  the  grace  of  a  born  boulevardier. 
In  the  succeeding  two  blocks  he  tempered  his  gracefulness. 

"The  display  of  cane,"  decided  Francis,  "must  not  be 
more  prominent  than  is  warranted  by  its  importance.  It 
is,  after  all,  not  one  of  the  staples." 

He  added :  "  Although,  of  course,  it  may  once  have  been. 
To  one  of  Spencer's  primitive  types  it  was  a  necessity. 
Perhaps  because  it  was  so  important  once  is  why  it  re- 
mains so  important  still.  It  is  more  than  an  ornament." 

The  world,  he  felt,  was  more  subservient  for  that  cane; 
much  as  if  the  world  had  been  a  beast  and  ready  to  take 
proper  cognizance  of  a  club  in  the  hands  of  a  stranger. 
The  polite  indifference  of  fine  ladies,  the  haughty  stares 
of  fine  gentlemen,  did  not  awe  him  as  much  as  formerly. 
Let  them  sniff,  even  let  them  growl  at  him — he  had  a  stick ! 

Largely  because  of  that  stick,  he  strolled  until  he  came 
to  West  End  Avenue,  and  largely  because  of  it  he  con- 
tinued to  stroll  up  that  dignified  thoroughfare  until  the 
terra-cotta  fagade  of  2067  faced  him  from  across  the 
street. 

He  stopped  and  contemplated  the  unforgetable  num- 
ber, leaning  negligently  on  his  cane. 

He  was  not  at  all  alarmed,  merely  exhilarated,  full  of 
life  and  interest.  His  knees  did  not  tremble,  his  heart  did 
not  flutter,  as  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  visit,  less  than 
two  weeks  before.  New  cane,  new  clothes,  and  a  newness 
inside  of  him  that  the  new  outside,  in  some  way,  sym- 
bolized, gave  him  command  of  the  situation.  He  had 
just  as  much  right  as  any  other  gentleman  in  New  York 
City  to  stand  at  that  particular  spot:  to  stand,  and  gener- 
ally to  admire,  and  particularly  to  contemplate  the 
architectural  beauties  of  the  fine  apartment-house  across 
the  street. 

103 


Second    Youth 


Out  of  his  new  pride  he  conceived  a  bright  idea.  He 
might  go  over  and  ask  the  duck-suited  hall-boy,  who  was 
taking  the  evening  air  in  a  chair  near  the  entrance, 
whether  a  Mrs.  Twombly  lived  there.  He  would  just  ask 
the  hall-boy  as  any  other  passing  gentleman  might  ask 
such  an  entirely  innocent  question.  It  would  be  interest- 
ing, worth  his  while,  to  make  sure  that  she  had  not 
moved. 

He  returned  to  the  nearest  corner,  crossed  the  street, 
and  strolled  with  great  gentility  down  to  the  white  marble 
doorway.  From  the  tail  of  one  eye  he  saw  that  the  hall- 
boy  was  still  in  his  chair,  just  inside  the  entrance. 

Mr.  Francis  hesitated,  put  one  hand  to  his  forehead  as 
if  struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  and  turned  into  the  bright 
light  of  the  entrance-hall.  The  boy  rose,  all  deference,  to 
meet  him.  Mr.  Francis,  much  encouraged,  twirled  his 
cane  in  a  complete  circle. 

"Aw — could  you  tell  me  wrhether  a  Mrs.  Twombly — 
Mrs.  Adelaide  Winton  Twombly,  resides  here?"  he  asked; 
his  voice  had  the  quiet  condescension  of  a  blooded  prince's. 

"Just  step  this  way,  sir,"  begged  the  hall-boy,  full  of 
the  deepest  reverence  and  yet  with  an  assurance  that  left 
Mr.  Francis  no  choice  but  to  do  as  requested. 

Down  the  high,  electric-light-flooded  hallway  of  pure 
white  marble  he  followed  the  hall-boy.  Gone  was  all  but 
the  thin  shell  of  his  dignity;  he  felt  as  conspicuous  and 
unhappy  as  a  cockroach  in  a  bath-tub. 

"This  boy  will  attend  to  your  request,  sir,"  said  the 
hall-boy,  bowed  politely,  and  pussy-footed  away. 

Mr.  Francis  awoke  to  the  fact  that  the  dark  face  and 
white  eyeballs  of  a  colored  gentleman  were  looking  at  him 
expectantly  over  the  top  of  a  low  partition  of  Circassian 
walnut. 

104 


Second    Youth 


"I  merely  wish  to  inquire  whether  a  Mrs.  Twombly, 
a  Mrs.  Adelaide  Winton  Twombly — "  began  Mr.  Francis. 

"Yes,  suh!  Jus'  a  moment,  suh!"  interrupted  the  man 
snappily,  and  several  soft  clicking  sounds  arose  from  be- 
hind the  partition. 

"Resided  here,"  finished  Mr.  Francis,  wishing  that  he 
had  not  come. 

"Yes,  suh!  Name,  please!"  replied  the  colored  man. 
He  was  very  alert  and  snappy. 

"My  name?"  gasped  Mr.  Francis. 

"  Yes,  suh — of  cou'se,  suh — yoh  name,  suh,"  explained  the 
colored  man,  without  explaining  anything  to  Mr.  Francis. 

Francis  was  totally  unprepared  for  any  such  com- 
promising demand.  "  Why,  I  do  not  care  to  give  my  name. 
I  merely — " 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Twombly;  jus'  a  moment,  please,"  inter- 
rupted the  colored  man,  all  snap  and  politeness. 

Francis  was  just  able  to  gasp  out:  " I  do  not  wish  to  give 
my  name !  I  merely  wished  to  ascertain — to  ascertain — 
He  could  get  no  further;  it  came  over  him  with  blinding 
suddenness  that  there  was  a  telephone  behind  that  par- 
tition, that  the  colored  man  was  already  in  telephonic 
communication  with  Miss  Winton. 

"I  told  you  I  did  not  wish  to  give  my  name;  I  merely 
wished  to  ascertain  whether  she  lived  here,"  objected  Mr. 
Francis,  in  a  thin,  husky  voice,  and  dropped  his  new  cane 
noisily  on  the  floor. 

While  he  stooped  in  a  blinding  mist  to  pick  it  up  he 
heard  further  words  from  the  colored  man:  "I  suttinly 
would  if  I  could,  ma'm;  but  he  says  he  doesn't  wish  to 
give  his  name,  he  me'ly  wished  to  asuhtain  if  you  resided 
heah,  ma'm." 

Mr.  Francis  stood  still,  unable  to  speak  or  move. 
8  105 


Second    Youth 


t"  Why,  ma'm — "  He  caught  a  white  flash  as  the  colored 
man  rolled  appraising  eyes  in  his  direction.  There  was 
another  brief  silence,  spellbound,  terrific.  "No,  ma'm, 
not  a  black  cutaway,  ma'm;  but  he  has  got  gold-rimmed 
specs — yes,  ma'm." 

At  a  pace  that  was  neither  a  walk  nor  a  run,  at  a  sort 
of  scuttle  that  combined  the  advantages  of  both  means  of 
locomotion,  Mr.  Francis  made  for  the  street.  The  hall- 
boy  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood  at  attention;  Mr. 
Francis,  giving  him  a  wide  berth,  dived  into  the  protecting 
obscurity  of  the  night. 

"Pride  goeth  before  a  fall!"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
when  the  crowded  seclusion  of  upper  Broadway  had  given 
him  back  his  breath  and  thought  processes.  "Pride  cer- 
tainly goes  before  a  fall !  I  have  made  a  fool  of  myself  be- 
yond any  previous  occasion — and  they  have  been  many.  I 
wonder  if  she  can  possibly — possibly  suspect  that  it  was  I?" 

Mr.  Francis  complained:  "That — that  lackey!  Why 
didn't  he  merely  tell  me  what  I  asked,  what  I  wished 
to  know?  I'm  afraid,  if  she  finds  that  it  was  I,  it  will 
mean  the  end  of  everything  between  us.  Probably  it  is 
better  so!  Yes,  I  may  say  that  this  means  the  end  of  that 
dream!"  declared  Mr.  Francis;  and  tried  to  disregard  a 
steady  drip,  drip,  drip  that  seemed  to  have  started  in  the 
region  of  his  heart. 

Toward  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  immediately  after 
he  reached  his  own  room,  Mr.  Francis  wrote  in  the  book: 

Thursday,  June  1st. 

To-day  ascertained  that  Miss  Winton  still  resides  where 
she  resided  before.  It  is  customary  to  send  up  your 

106 


Second    Youth 


name  in  those  fine  apartment-houses.  Live  and  learn. 
I  shall  not  soon  forget  what  I  learned  to-day.  Every  one 
must  make  mistakes  at  times.  Once  I  sent  a  wheeler  of 
reserve-stock  goods  to  the  receiving-room,  but  I  got  over 
that,  as  I  will  gradually  get  over  some  other  things  just  as 
ferocious. 

Have  thought  to-day  much  about  Helen  Remmick. 
She  is  very  beautiful,  and  a  good  bread  and  cake  maker, 
and  her  profile  is  much  like  Mrs.  Twombly's.  I  did  not 
intend  to  write  Mrs.  Twombly  there,  but  Miss  Winton, 
but  at  times  Mrs.  Twombly,  her  real  name,  seems  to  suit. 
And  yet  why  should  I  be  piqued  at  her  this  evening?  She 
has  done  nothing  to  me. 

Without  being  piqued,  I  may  say  that  this  is  about  the 
end  of  that  dream.  Or  nearly  the  end,  at  least.  We 
have  too  little  in  common.  I  could  never  live  in  an 
apartment-house  like  that,  even  if  I  had  millions.  It  is 
too  garish,  too  white  and  bleak,  it  is  like  some  of  these 
fancy  new  silks,  all  stuffed  full  of  stannic  chloride.  I 
don't  see  how  any  one  can  get  any  peace  there. 

It  is  proper,  of  course,  for  me  to  make  a  dinner  call 
at  the  Remmicks'  some  evening  soon,  and  I  shall  hope 
to  see  more  of  Miss  Helen.  I  admire  her  more  the  more 
I  think  of  her.  I  shall  ask  her  what  she  thinks  about  these 
garish  new  apartment-houses,  and  a  great  deal  may  de- 
pend on  how  she  feels  about  them. 

The  next  night,  also  toward  one  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
Mr.  Francis  wrote  in  the  book: 


This  evening  again  walked  past  her  home,  although  I 

intended  not  to  when  I  started  out.     Very  lonesome  and 

107 


Second    Youth 


low  in  my  mind.  There  is  something  about  the  locality 
that  attracts  me,  even  though  a  closer  view  of  the  apart- 
ment-house has  convinced  me  I  do  not  care  for  it.  I  am 
reminded  again  of  Sir  Wm.  Davenant's  lines: 

Since  Knowledge  is  but  Sorrow's  spy, 
It  is  not  safe  to  know. 

That  was  the  case  with  that  apartment-house  which 
previously  I  had  thought  so  fine.  I  wonder  if  the  same 
thing  would  be  the  case  with  Miss  Winton?  Still,  a  person 
is  not  the  same — a  person  can  change  and  be  quite  dif- 
ferent at  different  times,  and  this  is  especially  true  of 
Miss  Winton.  Perhaps  the  apartments,  too,  may  be 
beautiful;  I  must  remember  that  she  does  not  live  in  the 
halls. 

Walked  past  several  times,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  and  thought  of  things  too  numerous  to  mention.  I 
appreciate  walking  much  more  since  I  have  my  cane. 

Two  nights  later,  also  toward  one  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
he  wrote : 

Again  walked  past  her  house.  Tried  to  think  which 
might  be  her  windows,  if  they  happened  to  be  on  the 
street  side.  I  think  they  are  on  the  street  side,  and  high 
up,  so  that  she  can  look  out  over  the  lower  buildings  to  the 
lordly  Hudson  and  the  Jersey  shore  beyond. 

The  walk  up  there  and  back,  about  eight  miles  and  a 
hah*,  seems  about  what  I  need,  it  makes  me  feel  better, 
and  the  nights  now  are  glorious  for  walking.  I  suppose 
there  is  some  danger,  if  I  walk  past  so  often  and  stand  in 

108 


Second    Youth 


front  of  the  house  so  much,  I  may  meet  her  accidentally, 
some  time.  I  have  decided  that  one  of  the  apartments  on 
the  top  floor,  in  which  there  is  often  a  faint,  yellowish 
light,  must  be  hers. 

Of  course  it  probably  isn't,  there  must  be  fifty  apart- 
ments in  the  building,  but  what  harm  does  it  do  if  I  want 
to  call  it  hers? 

Under  the  entries  of  Tuesday,  June  6th,  Wednesday, 
June  7th,  and  Friday,  June  9th,  Mr.  Francis  mentioned 
that  he  had  walked  past  "and  looked  up  at  her  apart- 
ment." Sometimes  the  dim  yellowish  light  was  not 
there,  and  on  these  occasions  the  rest  of  the  entry  was 
likely  to  be  short  and  pessimistic.  Sometimes  the  light 
shone;  on  such  evenings  he  wrote  more  pleasantly  of  life 
as  it  appeared  to  him. 

Under  the  date  of  Saturday,  June  10th,  he  wrote: 

To-day  received  a  note.  It  was  on  my  desk  this  morn- 
ing, the  first  personal  note  I  ever  received  at  McDavitt's. 
I  may  say  that  it  ends  everything,  definitely,  once,  and 
for  all.  No  other  comment  is  necessary. 

On  the  facing  page  he  pinned  the  note,  four  large,  flow- 
ing lines  between  the  "My  dear  Mr.  Francis"  and  the 
signature.  They  read: 

Won't  you  please  try  to  be  less  conspicuous  in  your  evening 
promenades  past  my  apartment?  You  see  the  hall-boys  know 
I'm  the  attraction,  and  I'm  very  busy  being  a  perfectly  proper 
lady. 


VIII 

SOME    INTERESTING,    TO    MR.    FRANCIS,    AT  LEAST,  EXPERI- 
MENTS   IN    FRIENDSHIP AND    IN    A    FOURTH    VARIETY 

OF  ROMANCE 

PARTLY  because  he  was  so  busy  with  other  matters, 
more  because  he  had  an  instinctive  distrust  of  her, 
Francis  had  got  into  the  habit  of  avoiding  Mrs.  Benson. 
The  avoidance  went  against  the  grain  of  his  many  impulses 
to  brighten  her  dull  life. 

He  may  have  avoided  her  somewhat  as  a  fly  will  some- 
times avoid  sugared  fly-paper.  Doubtless  the  fly,  if  in- 
experienced, has  no  clear  concept  of  fly-paper,  of  its  sig- 
nificance to  himself;  but  no  one  who  has  devoutly  desired 
the  presence  of  a  particular  fly  on  a  particular  piece  of  fly- 
paper can  doubt  that  a  sort  of  protective  instinct,  above 
and  beyond  the  carefulness  bred  by  experience,  abides 
in  the  bosoms  of  insects. 

Mrs.  Benson,  on  the  other  hand,  gave  indications  of 
being  a  conscious  agent,  a  piece  of  fly-paper  with  a  will 
toward  flies.  At  least  she  gave  Whiggam  that  impression; 
and  Whiggam,  being  a  general  good  fellow  in  his  leisure 
hours  no  less  than  in  his  professional  hours  as  a  whisky 
salesman,  passed  the  impression  along  to  Francis. 

"Say,  old  man,"  he  said,  "watch  out  for  the  head  of  the 
table.  She's  got  her  eye  on  you.  Do  you  get  me, 
Steve?" 

no 


Second    Youth 


They  were  coming  up  the  narrow  stairs  from  the  base- 
ment dining-room  after  dinner.  Francis  remembered 
Whiggam's  mysterious  2-A.M.  warning  of  some  weeks 
before,  and  smiled.  Whiggam,  of  course,  was  a  humorous 
character. 

"No,  I  mean  it.  Come  into  my  room  a  minute.  Let 
me  tell  you  something,"  said  Whiggam,  and  led  the  way 
up  a  second  flight  of  stairs  to  the  second-floor  back. 
Francis  followed  him  in  and  waited  with  uneasy  dignity 
during  the  lighting  of  the  gas.  Toward  the  whisky 
salesman,  also,  Francis  preserved  an  instinctive  offishness. 

"Sit  down,  man,  sit  down!"  ordered  Whiggam,  cor- 
dially waving  one  hairy  hand  toward  a  chair,  "and  have  a 
good  cigar!" 

"Guess  I  won't  smoke,  if  it's  just  the  same  to  you," 
said  Francis,  accepting  the  chair. 

Whiggam  selected  and  lighted  a  long,  thick,  gold-banded 
cigar. 

"I  saw  you  didn't  get  me  on  the  stairs,  nor  you  didn't 
get  me  the  other  night  when  I  butted  in  on  you,"  he  said, 
stretching  his  stocky  figure  in  the  green-plush  rocker  that 
stood  opposite  Mr.  Francis's  chair.  "What  I  mean,  to 
speak  right  out  in  meetin',  was — unless  you  want  to  take 
a  little  trip  down  to  City  Hall  for  a  marriage  license — 
look  out  for  Big  B.  And  that's  no  joke,  either!" 

Francis  saw  that,  for  the  moment,  the  boarding-house's 
stock  humorist  was  serious.  "Why,  I'm  a  lot  obliged  to 
you,  Whiggam,"  he  said,  coloring  uncomfortably;  "but 
the  fact  is,  I  think  you're  mistaken  about  her." 

"Take  it  from  an  old-timer — nothin'  doin*  without  a 
license."  Whiggam  shut  his  big  mouth  so  that  his  lips 
protruded  in  front  and  screwed  up  half  of  his  round  face 

in  a  wink.     Thanks  to  his  heavy  naso-labial  lines,  his 

111 


Second    Youth 


bushy  eyebrows,  and  Shakespearian  baldness  surrounded 
by  an  outstanding  fringe  of  hair,  he  looked  like  nothing 
so  much  as  a  well-disposed  gorilla.  "She  mentioned 
licenses  and  wedding-bells  to  me  before  I'd  hardly  looked 
at  her."  He  smoked,  knitting  his  brows  with  regret  for 
Mrs.  Benson's  depravity.  "She's  awful  common  type — 
mushy,  but  moral.  Uck!"  The  little  exclamation  that 
concluded  his  indictment  was  half  an  expression  of  disgust, 
half  a  suppressed  belch. 

"I'm  sure  I'm  greatly  obliged  to  you,  Whiggam,"  re- 
peated Francis,  with  great  natural  intolerance  for  the 
whisky  salesman  and  all  the  whisky  salesman  stood  for. 
"Very  kind  of  you  to  mention  it  to  me,"  he  concluded,  and 
rose  to  go  away. 

"Sit  down,  man,  sit  down!"  begged  Whiggam;  he  arose, 
in  blustery  friendliness,  and  pushed  Francis  back  into  the 
chair. 

Francis  sat  down  suddenly,  helplessly;  he  had  not  been 
prepared  to  use  physical  violence  in  making  his  escape. 

"Maybe  I've  been  a  little  coarse  in  my  way  of  putting 
it,"  apologized  Whiggam,  standing  wide-legged  before 
him;  "I  am  coarse.  It's  my  nature,  and  I  can't  get 
around  it.  That's  one  reason  I've  always  sort  of  looked 
up  to  you,  o'  man,  even  if  you  have  always  given  me  some- 
thing of  a  cold  shoulder.  So  I  can't  have  you  going  away 
thinking  I'm  nothing  but  a  low-browed  butter-in." 

The  apology  was  evidently  genuine;  he  scowled  with 
regret. 

"I  know  I'm  dead  right  about  this,"  he  went  on;  "Big 
B.'s  set  her  cap  at  you  after  bein'  give  the  go-by  by  every 
other  man  in  sight.  And  I  don't  need  anybody  to  tell  me 
you  don't  know  much  about  the  ways  of  the  gentler  sex. 
That's  no  reflection  on  you,  you  understand.  I  wish  J 

m 


Second    Youth 


wasn't  such  an  expert  myself!  So  I  just  thought  I'd 
give  you  a  friendly  hint.  I'd  hate  to  see  you  bringin'  your 
weekly  pay-envelope  home  to  her.  It  'u'd  be  a  tragedy ! 
I  know  somethin'  about  this  woman  business — been  mar- 
ried four  times,  regularly  married.  Just  say  you  appre- 
ciate my  good  intentions,  anyway,  and  '11  overlook  the  way 
I  put  it — what?" 

"Certainly.  That's  all  right,"  said  Francis,  meeting 
well-meant  frankness  half-way.  "But  in  this  case  I  think 
you're  mistaken — that's  all." 

"Well — stitch  in  time  often  saves  nine!"  Whiggam 
went  back,  in  bluff  contentment,  to  the  green -plush 
rocker.  "Didn't  mean  to  insinuate  you  couldn't  take 
care  of  yourself;  just  been  thinkin'  for  some  time  some 
one  who  knew  the  ropes  ought  to  give  you  a  quiet  tip. 
You  haven't  had  much  to  do  with  the  gentler  sex,  have 

you?" 

"No,"  admitted  Francis,  edging  toward  the  door- 
ward  corner  of  his  chair;  "in  fact — practically  nothing." 

Whiggam  nodded.  "Sure,  I  knew  it!  One  of  the 
reasons  I  always  sort  of  wanted  to  have  a  little  talk  with 
you."  He  puffed  his  cigar,  looking  admiration  and  per- 
plexity out  of  his  keen  little  blue  eyes.  "Say — if  you 
don't  mind — how  do  you  manage  to  put  it  over?  I  can't. 
Never  could.  Made  an  awful  hard  try  this  last  time — 
but  goin'  to  git  married  again  in  a  week  or  so,  I  guess. 
Don't  tell  it  around,  will  you?  How'd  you  manage  to  do 
it — that's  what  I'd  like  to  know.  'Tain't  too  late  to 
break  that  engagement  yet!" 

"Why — I  don't  know,"  murmured  Mr.  Francis,  flutter- 
some  and  unquiet.  He  wondered  what  sort  of  woman 
could  accept  Whiggam  in  that  light. 

"I  should  think  you'd  get  awful  lonesome,  miserable—' 

113 


Second    Youth 


just  hashing  round — and  no  one  to  talk  to  regular,"  per- 
sisted Whiggam.  "Lord!  for  the  last  year  or  so  I  been 
foot-loose  I've  felt  I  wanted  to  commit  suicide — nearly 
all  the  time  when  I  wasn't  lit  up." 

"That's  too  bad,"  murmured  Francis,  perplexed  and 
moved;  at  bottom,  it  appeared,  the  boarding-house  hu- 
morist was  a  pitiable  character.  "But — all  that  will  be 
ended  soon,  will  it  not?"  he  suggested. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so.  But  marriage  is  no  bed  of  roses, 
either,"  returned  Whiggam,  and  continued  to  ruminate 
with  his  big,  heavy  chin  in  one  hand. 

Francis  once  more  rose  to  go.  Interested  as  he  was 
in  the  general  subject  Whiggam  had  brought  up,  he  could 
not  discuss  it  with  the  whisky  salesman;  their  standpoints, 
he  decided,  were  different. 

"Sit  down.  Don't  go  yet!"  half -ordered,  half -begged 
Whiggam.  "Let's  open  up  a  bottle  of  something — have 
a  real  good  talk!" 

"Thanks,  but  I'm  afraid  I  must  go  along,"  said  Francis, 
going  with  dignity  toward  the  door.  A  month  before  he 
would  have  obeyed  like  a  lamb. 

"Some  more  reading  in  those  books  you're  always 
lugging  in,  I  suppose?"  Whiggam  grumbled.  He  arose, 
followed  Francis  to  the  door,  and  held  out  a  wide,  hairy 
hand.  "Well,  I  admire  you  for  it.  As  for  me,  I  could 
always  get  more  out  of  talking  with  people  than  out  of 
books.  What  you  reading?" 

"Emerson's  Representative  Men  just  now,"  said  Francis, 
solemnly  shaking  hands  on  one  side  and  getting  the  door 
open  on  the  other. 

Whiggam  nodded.  "Had  it  in  Freshman  year — far  as 
I  ever  got — at  Yale,"  he  ruminated.  "Don't  remember 

anything  about  it — probably  didn't  read  it.     I  was  too 

114 


Second    Youth 


busy  trying  to  make  the  football  team — so  busy  I  got  fired 
in  the  middle  of  Freshman  year.  Suppose  you  went  to 
college?" 

Francis,  lingering  in  the  doorway,  looked  down  at  the 
stocky,  gorilla-faced  man  with  mystified  wonder  and  awe. 
"No,  I  never  went  to  college,"  he  admitted. 

" That's  queer,"  said  Whiggam;  "  that's  kinda  queer.  I 
always  had  a  sort  of  feeling  you  were  a  college  man — one 
of  the  ginks  who  get  their  names  up  at  the  head  of  the 
class  roll  in  capital  letters,  and  make  Phi  Beta  Kappa  in  a 
walk.  You're  all  there — down  to  the  eye-glasses  and  the 
high-brow  talk." 

"Not  at  all,"  protested  Francis.  "I  only  managed  to 
scrape  up  a  little  stray  knowledge  here  and  there." 

"Well,  good  night — won't  keep  you."  The  whisky 
salesman  would  have  closed  the  door  if  Francis  had  not 
shown  a  tendency  to  stand  in  the  way.  "  Drop  in  again — 
whenever  you  feel  you  can  stand  a  rough-neck.  But  I 
guess  that  young  McNab  is  more  your  sort.  He's  a 
Brown  University  man,  he  told  me  the  other  evening  when 
I  noticed  his  frat  pin  after  I'd  been  crowing  over  the  way 
Yale  walked  away  with  the  boat-race.  Never  got  over 
my  Yale  spirit,  as  they  call  it.  It's  the  same  sort  o'  spirit 
that  makes  good  in  business.  Stick  to  it  like  a  bulldog 
and  you'll  win!  That's  the  Yale  mascot,  you  know — a 
bow-legged  bulldog  with  a  mouthful  of  teeth.  Many's 
the  time  I've  sold  a  man  a  case  o'  goods  he  didn't  want  by 
sayin'  to  myself,  'Whiggie,  remember  your  Yale  spirit!' 
That's  one  good  thing  I  got  out  of  Yale,  anyway.  Well, 
I  talk  like  a  water-wheel  when  I  once  get  started,  don't  I? 
And  say,  o'  man — since  we  seem  to  have  got  on  an  inter- 
esting subject — could  you  let  me  have  another  five  till 

next  week?    What  with  all  these  preparations  for  gettin' 

115 


Second    Youth 


married,  you  know — a  man  can't  do  much  on  a  measly 
little  forty  dollars  a  week.  Could  you — what?" 

Francis  let  him  have  it.  Wiggam  thanked  him  with 
obvious  sincerity. 

"And  say,  o'  man,  you  won't  hold  it  up  against  me  for 
buttin'  in  in  reference  to  the  head  of  the  table?"  he  begged. 

Francis  said,  "Certainly  not,"  and  went  to  his  room. 
Before  opening  his  door  he  glanced  up  the  narrow  stairway 
to  the  third  floor,  at  the  top  of  which  McNab,  the  news- 
paper reporter,  had  a  hall  bedroom.  There  was  a  patch 
of  light  from  McNab's  door.  It  seemed  to  Mr.  Francis 
symbolical  of  the  light  of  learning  that  must  be  within, 
granted  that  McNab  hadn't  gone  away  and  left  his  gas- 
jet  burning,  as  he  occasionally  aroused  Mrs.  Benson's  ire 
by  doing. 

A  few  minutes  later  Mr.  Francis  wrote  in  the  book: 


There  is  something  about  a  university.  Even  though 
Whiggam  is  right,  there  is  perhaps  as  much  knowledge 
to  be  got  out  of  men  as  out  of  books.  I  am  not  thinking 
of  Whiggam,  especially;  I  doubt  if  he  benefited  by  his 
training  any  more  than  I  benefited  at  the  Manual  Training 
School.  And  then,  of  course,  his  stay  was  very  short. 

But  McNab  is  a  different  sort  of  man.  On  all  sides  I 
hear  that  people  would  have  been  more  friendly  with  me 
if  I  had  only  shown  myself  more  friendly.  I  may  perhaps 
have  been  too  stand-offish  with  people.  I  wonder  if  I 
could  make  a  friend  of  McNab,  if  I  made  the  effort? 

It  will  be  a  good  thing;  I  need  something  to  take  me  out 
of  myself.  I  have  not  cared  to  walk  so  much  lately,  not 
since  that  note,  nor  have  I  seemed  to  care  for  the  asso- 
ciations of  the  boarding-house. 

116 


Second    Youth 


Every  man  should  have  a  friend  or  two.  I  can  honestly 
say  that  I  have  never  had  one  close  friend.  McNab  has 
been  very  friendly  to  me  at  the  table.  He  seems  to  be  of  a 
studious  temperament.  Possibly  he  would  have  more  in 
common  with  me  than  Whiggam  has,  and  he  may  possibly 
be  lonely  himself.  Perhaps  I  should  not  presume  too 
much  if  I  called  in  his  room.  Persons  who  have  been  in  a 
place  before  are  supposed  to  call  first  on  persons  arriving 
later,  of  course;  and  etiquette  in  a  house  ought  to  be  no 
different  from  etiquette  in  a  town,  although  Mrs.  Harland 
makes  no  mention  of  this. 


Francis  went  up  to  the  reporter's  room  and  knocked  on 
the  half-open  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  a  listless,  low-pitched  voice. 

Francis  pushed  the  door  open  and  entered.  There  was 
just  room  enough  in  the  cubbyhole  for  a  bed,  a  chair,  and 
a  bureau  in  single  file  along  one  side,  and  a  narrow  passage- 
way between  them  and  the  opposite  wall.  The  occu- 
pants of  that  cheapest  room  in  the  Benson  menage 
washed  in  the  bathroom,  down-stairs. 

McNab  was  sitting  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  in  a  position 
convenient  to  the  light  of  the  single  unsteady  gas-jet,  with 
an  afternoon  newspaper  on  his  knees.  Half  a  dozen  other 
papers  were  scattered  on  the  floor  at  his  feet. 

"  Oh,  good  evening.  Glad  to  see  you,"  he  said,  and  rose 
to  push  forward  the  chair. 

Francis  protested,  stopping  in  the  doorway:  "I  hope 
I'm  not  interrupting  you.  I  merely  thought,  seeing  your 
light  from  the  landing  below — " 

"  No  interruption  at  all,"  the  reporter  declared.  He  was 
a  lean,  dark,  melancholy,  long-faced,  lank-haired  youth, 

117 


Second    Youth 


and  his  mouth  and  eyes  looked  bored.  "I  was  just  finish- 
ing my  afternoon  grist  of  newspapers." 

He  pushed  the  chair  forward.  Francis,  murmuring  a 
word  of  thanks,  sat  down  in  it.  McNab  returned  to  the 
edge  of  the  bed  and  waited  for  Francis  to  explain;  unless 
Francis  had  some  good  explanation,  here  was  a  plain 
breach  of  Benson  boarding-house  traditions.  In  the  Ben- 
son boarding-house,  as  in  most  of  the  others  that  thronged 
the  neighborhood,  every  man's  room  was  his  combined 
castle  and  prison  cell. 

Francis  at  once  felt  the  need  for  an  explanation. 

"I  came  on  an  impulse,"  he  told  the  reporter,  trying  to 
speak  up  to  his  idea  of  what  a  university  man  might  be 
accustomed  to.  "  I  remembered  the  custom  according  to 
which  old  residents  of  a  city,  or  a  certain  section  of  a  city, 
are  expected  to  call  upon  new  arrivals;  and  I  saw  no 
reason  why  the  same  rule — it  seemed  a  friendly  and 
proper  one  to  me — might  not  apply  to  the  residents  of  a 
boarding-house." 

"Why — that's  right — that's  certainly  a  good  idea,"  ad- 
mitted the  reporter,  slightly  overcome. 

"I  have,  at  times,  thought  that  there  might  be  an 
unusual,  and  unnecessary,  amount  of  loneliness  about  a 
boarding-house,"  observed  Mr.  Francis,  presenting  the 
theory  with  all  deference  to  Mr.  McNab's  granted  superi- 
ority in  the  matter  of  theories. 

The  reporter,  to  Mr.  Francis's  intense  gratification, 
seemed  pleased. 

"I  say,  that's  about  the  first  really  human  and  friendly — 
I  mean  your  coming  up  with  that  idea  in  mind — it's 
about  the  first  friendly  thing  that's  happened  to  me  since 
I  struck  this  God-forsaken  city!"  he  declared;  he  reached 

up  to  throw  a  hank  of  long  black  hair  back  from  his  square 

118 


Second    Youth 


forehead;  Mr.  Francis  saw  that  he  was  really  moved. 
"You  bet  there's  an  unnecessary  amount  of  loneliness 
around  here!  I  come  from  a  small  city  where  people  are 
still  people — not  machines.  I  suppose  you've  lived  here 
— got  used  to  it — at  least  I  never  noticed  that  you  seemed 
to  mind  the  loneliness  as  much  as  I  have." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I've  got  used  to  it,"  admitted  Mr. 
Francis;  "but  that  doesn't  make  me  want  to  get — to  get 
unused  to  it." 

The  reporter  said,  "I  get  you — get  you  perfectly,"  and 
sat  looking  at  his  visitor  with  almost  humble  appreciation. 
"I  haven't  reached  your  equanimity  yet — I  divide  most  of 
my  time  between  having  the  blues  and  wanting  to  get 
drunk.  I  dare  say,  of  course,  I'll  come  around.  I'm  glad 
you  came  up — mighty  glad.  It's  as  good  as  a  drink  to 
me — and  that's  saying  a  good  deal!  Although,  if  you'll 
believe  me,  I  never  had  a  drink  in  my  life  till  I  hit  this 
damned  burg!" 

Mr.  Francis  was  overcome  not  so  much  by  this  last 
revelation  as  by  the  almost  devotional  gratitude  with  which 
his  attempt  at  friendship  had  been  received.  Something 
in  him  expanded,  his  very  pulse  became  more  rapid.  He 
smiled  at  Mr.  McNab  and  McNab  smiled  back  at  him. 
They  were  getting  on  famously.  Mr.  Francis  could  have 
gone  down  on  his  knees  to  express  proper  thanks. 

"I  say — got  anything  on  in  particular  this  evening?" 
asked  the  reporter. 

Mr.  Francis  replied,  promptly,  "Nothing  whatever." 

"Then,  maybe  you  wouldn't  mind  making  the  rounds 
with  me?"  McNab  was  apologetic,  but  hopeful.  "The 
rounds  of  the  police  stations  in  the  neighborhood — looking 
for  news,  you  know,"  he  explained.  "I'm  getting  a  try- 
out  on  the  City  News  Association,  you  know — where  you 

119 


Second    Youth 


do  the  rag-picking  for  all  the  city  newspapers  and  get  half 
as  much  for  it  as  if  you  were  working  half  as  hard  on  a  real 
sheet.  It  might  not  be  a  bore  to  you  to  go  along — if 
you've  never  seen  anything  of  news  as  it's  made — and  I 
ought  to  be  starting  now — much  as  I'd  rather  just  sit 
here  and  talk  to  you.  If  you'd  come  it  would  be  one 
charitable  act  for  your  good  angel  to  record!" 

Francis  replied,  in  English  of  the  essayical  sort,  that 
McNab's  good  angel  had  something  to  record  because 
McNab  had  suggested  such  an  outing.  As  they  started 
down  the  stairs  Francis  suggested  that  he  turn  back  and 
put  out  Mr.  McNab's  light;  it  would  save  trouble  in  case 
Mrs.  Benson  happened  to  glance  up  the  stairs.  Mr. 
McNab,  in  great  confusion,  apologized  for  forgetting  the 
matter,  and  hurried  back  to  turn  out  the  light  himself. 

They  stepped  out  into  a  muggy,  misty  June  night. 
The  rows  of  old-fashioned  gas-lights  along  Eleventh 
Street  were  making  haloed  splotches  of  brightness  in  the 
Atlantic  mist,  carried  in  before  a  southeast  breeze.  The 
bulk  of  the  buildings,  the  heavy,  cubical,  massed  archi- 
tecture of  a  New  York  cross-town  street,  was  made  im- 
pressive by  the  simplifying  curtain  of  mist.  A  few  cats 
sneaked  like  shadows  among  the  garbage  and  ash  cans 
along  the  outer  edge  of  the  narrow,  gritty  stone  sidewalk, 
a  few  pedestrians  passed  droopingly,  in  a  hurry,  anxious 
to  get  somewhere  else. 

Francis  thoughtfully  sniffed  the  air.  Brackish  whiffs  of 
sea-water  smell  permeated  the  mist,  and  a  heavy,  earthy 
odor  arose,  on  the  odor-carrying  mist,  from  the  line  of 
piled  earth  beside  an  excavation  along  the  gutter.  Also 
there  was  a  nauseating,  drunken  smell  of  gas  and  of  dank 
earth  long  impregnated  with  it:  the  excavation  must 
have  followed  the  course  of  a  leaky  gas-main.  The  mist 

120 


Second    Youth 


made  the  lights  from  the  window  of  a  neighboring  saloon 
look  sullen  and  bleary,  in  some  curious  way  carrying  out 
the  effect  of  the  sullen,  bleary  smells  in  the  air.  Alto- 
gether it  was  a  bleary,  brutal  night,  a  surreptitious  night, 
a  night  primitive  and  with  debased  primitiveness — as  the 
smell  of  escaped  gas  debased  the  primitive  odor  of  wet 
earth. 

"I've  often  wondered  about  the  green  lights  in  front  of 
police  stations,"  remarked  Francis,  as  they  came  within 
sight  of  the  lights  marking  the  reporter's  first  place  of 
visit.  "Why  they  were  green,  you  know." 

"The  red  lights  mean  fire-alarm  boxes,  the  street  lights 
are  white,  and  green  was  the  next  color  they  thought  of, 
perhaps,"  suggested  McNab. 

Francis  admitted:  "Yes — of  course — I  never  thought 
of  that.  But  I  was  thinking  more  that  red  was  the  color 
of  fire,"  he  added;  "so  it  suits  the  fire-alarm  boxes;  and 
white  is  the  color  of  plain  lighting,  just  to  see  by.  I  was 
thinking  of  green  like  that,  you  know,  what  it  meant. 
Of  course  there  are  comfortable  shades  of  green — but  just 
that  particular  color  they  have  in  front  of  police  stations 
— I've  often  thought  it  looked  unhealthy — almost  gan- 
grenous, you  know.  Or  like  a  bad  bruise.  Of  course,  I 
suppose  it's  just  imagination." 

McNab  gave  him  a  side-glance  of  respectful  surprise. 
"That  listens  good  to  me!"  he  declared.  "I'd  never  no- 
ticed it,  but  you've  got  something  there  all  right!  And, 
believe  me,  a  good  many  of  the  things  you'll  find  behind 
those  lights — some  bruises,  some  putridity !  I  guess  those 
lights  are  symbolical,  all  right — stand  for  bruises  on  the 
body  politic!" 

"Yes — yes — you  put  it  much  better  than  I  did,"  said 

Mr.  Francis.     He  did  not  quite  get  the  university  man's 
9  121 


Second    Youth 


last  reference,  but  he  did  not  want  to  bother  him  by  asking 
questions. 

McNab  protested:  "Not  at  all.  You  said  it;  I  merely 
amplified.  I  never  notice  colors  much  myself.  Of 
course  I've  heard  of  color  symbolism,  but  I  confess  I  never 
heard  it  applied  so  it  didn't  sound  woozy  before!" 

"Color  symbolism?"  repeated  Mr.  Francis. 

"Yes — what  you  were  just  giving  me,"  explained 
McNab.  "Here  in  these  lights  we  have  symbols  of  man- 
kind's danger,  his  desire  to  know — and  his  bruises.  The 
best  thing  about  it  is  that,  even  though  it's  color  symbol- 
ism and  very  advanced,  you  know,  you  put  it  out  so  that 
it  sounds  like  common  sense!" 

Out  of  this  complimentary  speech  Mr.  Francis  seized 
upon  one  word  as  if  it  had  been  a  jewel  of  price.  "Ad- 
vanced!" he  repeated.  "Mr.  McNab — if  you'll  excuse 
suddenly  changing  the  subject — I'd  like  to  ask  you  to  tell 
me  something — " 

"Business.  Excuse  me  just  a  moment!"  interrupted 
McNab.  They  came  to  a  standstill  between  the  two  green 
pillar  lights  that  marked  the  entrance  of  the  police  station. 

Standing  on  the  little  brownstone  stoop  between  the 
lights  and  leaning  against  the  brownstone  railing  was  a 
portly  police  potentate  in  full  uniform.  McNab  addressed 
him  while  Francis  stood  diffidently  in  the  background. 

"  Good  evening,  Sergeant !  Fine  evening — and  I  wouldn't 
be  at  all  surprised  if  you  had  a  couple  o'  sticks  for  me — 
what?" 

The  officer  pushed  his  cap  back  and  smiled  down  with 
comradely  condescension  on  his  round  Irish  face.  "No th- 
in' whativer  this  evenin',  I'm  afraid,  Charlie,"  he  said. 

"Is  that  any  way  to  treat  me?"  protested  McNab.  "I 
hope  you  saw  the  space  I  got  your  bum  old  station  in 

122 


Second    Y outh 


the  little-girl-with-her-dead-pup  story  in  this  morning's 
American?" 

The  policeman  chuckled.  "Oh,  ye  liar!"  he  com- 
mented. "  Sure,  I  saw  it.  It  was  all  right.  And  a  grand 
imagination  ye've  got,  too!" 

''Need  it  in  the  business,"  said  McNab.  He  lingered, 
with  something  of  the  expectancy  of  a  dog  that  may  yet 
receive  a  bone.  "Say,  Sarge,  use  your  head!  Nothing  I 
could  get  a  little  human  interest  out  of?  No  heiress  lost? 
No  babies  fallen  out  of  third-story  windows  and  saved  by 
devoted  poodles  standing  under  to  break  their  fall?" 

The  sergeant  pushed  his  cap  even  farther  back,  and 
again  his  fingers  softly  searched  his  head;  but  again  he 
found  nothing  of  the  sort  desired  by  McNab. 

"  Sorry;  there  ain't  a  durned  thing,  Charlie,"  he  decided. 

"Much  obliged  just  the  same,  Sergeant.  I'll  remember 
you  when  I  come  into  my  millions,"  said  McNab,  and 
hurried  Francis  away  while  matters  remained  on  the 
pleasant  plane  they  had  attained. 

"There  was  no  news,  then?"  asked  Francis,  consolingly; 
most  of  his  mind  was  busy  on  the  "advanced"  question 
that  their  arrival  at  the  station  had  interrupted. 

McNab  sniffed.  "If  there  was,  that  bonehead 
wouldn't  know  it,"  he  said.  "He's  the  friendliest  of  the 
lot — and  the  hardest  to  get  anything  out  of." 

They  had  reached  the  side-entrance  of  a  saloon,  next 
door  to  the  station,  and  the  reporter  stopped.  "I  usually 
make  this  a  port  of  entry,  Mr.  Francis,"  he  explained; 
"in  case  of  disappointment,  I  steel  myself  to  bear  it.  In 
case  of  success,  I  hand  myself  a  smile.  Won't  you  come 
in  and  have  a  beer  on  the  disappointment  just  past?" 

"I  thought,"  murmured  Mr.  Francis,  yielding,  "you 
mentioned  that  you  did  not  expect  to  need — a — a  drink — " 

123 


Second    Youth 


McNab,  pushing  Mr.  Francis  ahead  of  him,  explained: 
"Beer  isn't  a  drink.  Beer  is  merely  a  substitute  for 
water — which  is  unusually  bad  hereabouts  on  account  of 
rotten  pipes.  And  they  have  the  biggest,  coolest  glass 
here  on  my  entire  route.  We'll  have  just  one — for  old 
sake's  sake!" 

Francis  found  himself  standing  before  his  first  bar. 

"Two  beers,  Gus!"  called  McNab,  cleverly  spinning  a 
quarter  in  the  barkeeper's  direction;  "and  pack  'em  in 
tight — mother's  washin' ! " 

Francis  managed  to  drink  the  whole  of  the  large  glass 
with  quite  as  much  difficulty  as  he  had  experienced  in  his 
two  or  three  previous  encounters  with  "ducks"  in  Mrs. 
Benson's  front  parlor.  He  was  turning  away,  contracted 
at  the  throat,  stuffy  at  the  midriff,  when  he  remembered 
having  read  somewhere  that  one  mustn't  expect  to  be 
treated  without  treating  in  turn.  "We  might  have  an- 
other?" he  suggested. 

"I  thought  that  would  loosen  you  up.  Good  beer,  isn't 
it?"  said  McNab.  "Well,  the  first  will  console  us  for 
getting  nothing  out  of  that  dumb  brute  back  there;  the 
second  we'll  drink  to  the  hope  of  future  prosperity !" 

Mr.  Francis  faced  the  prospect  of  another  glass  with 
alarm.  While  Gus  was  dutifully  "packing"  the  first 
glass  by  holding  it  close  up  under  the  spigot,  Mr.  Francis 
murmured  at  him:  "I  might — might  try  something  else. 
Perhaps  some  Chablis?" 

"Some  what?"  demanded  Gus. 

McNab  laughed  and  clapped  Francis  on  the  shoulder. 
"They  don't  have  Chablis  in  open  bottles,  you  high-toned 
sport!"  he  explained.  "Try  a  Rhine  wine — that's  much 
the  same,  if  you  don't  object  to  mixing — " 

"Yes,  a  Rhine  wine,  please,"  interrupted  Francis,  much 

124 


Second    Youth 


embarrassed.  "I  must  have  eaten  a  large  dinner.  I  do 
not  seem  to  have  room  for  another  of  Mr.  Gus's  large  beers 
— although  it's  the  best  beer  I  ever  tasted." 

Gus  was  mollified,  but  became  gloomy  again  when  he 
had  to  explain  to  Francis  that  ten  cents  for  this  round  was 
not  enough.  "  I  don't  know  where  you'll  git  Rhine  wine 
for  less'n  ten,"  he  commented. 

"You  mustn't  let  that  get  your  goat.  It's  no  disgrace 
not  to  have  saloon  prices  scheduled  in  your  mind,"  McNab 
told  him,  consolingly,  when  they  were  out  again  in  the 
muggy,  misty  night.  By  virtue  of  the  incident  just  passed 
McNab  had  become  slightly  superior,  slightly  protecting. 
Mr.  Francis,  after  a  short  silence  had  given  him  time  to 
renew  his  courage,  took  advantage  of  this  attitude  by 
completing  his  question  as  to  the  why  of  "advanced 
women." 

"Why,  they  have  advanced  ideas — about  freedom — 
equality  of  the  sexes — all  that  sort  of  thing,  don't  they?" 
said  McNab,  a  little  flattered,  but  also  a  little  at  sea. 
"I  mean,  they  claim  new  prerogatives — in  short,  they 
claim  every  prerogative  that  a  man  has — from  a  good 
many  of  which,  of  course,  they've  been  shut  off.  In  short, 
they  want  to  be  allowed  to  do  everything  a  man  is." 
McNab  was  getting  the  matter  in  hand,  dissecting  it  with 
a  clearness  that  aroused  Mr.  Francis's  much  admiration. 
"They're  allowed  now  to  do  about  everything  a  man  can, 
except  vote.  So  they're  concentrating  on  that.  When 
they  get  it,  I  look  for  a  great  dull  period  in  the  business  of 
advanced  women.  I  voted  last  fall  to  give  it  to  them. 
Hope  you  did,  too." 

"I've  never  voted  in  my  life,"  admitted  Francis. 

McNab  commented:    "Well,  there  are  a  good  many 

persons,  advanced   persons,   who  don't   believe   in   the 

125 


Second    Youth 


ballot,  but  I  believe  in  sticking  to  it  until  we  get 
something  better.  I  suppose  you'd  substitute  direct 
action?" 

"  I — I  hadn't  thought  of  it.  But,  if  you'll  excuse  me  for 
going  back — then  the  principal  thing  that  makes  ad- 
vanced women  different  is  that  they  want  the  ballot?" 
asked  Mr.  Francis. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  it  is — though  they  won't  admit  it. 
There's  a  lot  of  talk  about  wearing  pants,  and  different 
marriage  relations,  and  different  sorts  of  homes;  but,  to 
my  mind  at  least,  it  all  gets  point  from  the  single  fact  that 
they  aren't  allowed  to  vote.  That  stirs  them  up — and  I 
don't  blame  them.  It's  an  injustice  to  say  to  any  person 
in  God's  world,  'You  can't  do  this,'  unless  you  can 
prove  it's  going  to  hurt  you  a  good  deal  if  they  do  it!" 
McNab  was  getting  excited;  his  lean  lower  jaw  protruded. 
"And  nobody,  no  men  nor  group  of  men,  can  say  that 
woman  suffrage 's  going  to  hurt  them  so  much  they've  got  a 
right  to  put  their  foot  down !  As  soon  as  we  quit  treating 
them  like  minors,  idiots,  and  criminals  they'll  revert  to 
type — and  their  type  is  woman!  Not  advanced  woman, 
but  woman  as  the  main  stream  of  the  type  has  been  since 
history  began.  I'm  lecturing  like  a  fiend;  but  I  hope  you 
agree  with  me,  at  least  in  part,"  McNab  broke  off,  and 
laughed.  "  I  always  talk  vigorous  after  about  two  beers. 
I'm  easily  affected,  I  guess!" 

"You've  given  me  a  great  deal  to  think  about;  and  I 
fear  I  am  easily  affected  also,"  said  Mr.  Francis. 

"Well,  well — is  that  so?  Anyway,  they  say  it's  a  sign 
of  delicate  nervous  organization.  So  we  can  congratulate 
ourselves  on  our  delicate  nerves!"  commented  McNab, 
and  laughed  noisily.  "They  say  Edgar  Allan  Poe  could 

get  absolutely  pie-eyed  on  half  a  glass  of  claret!" 

126 


Second    Youth 


They  walked  on,  McNab  swinging  his  soft  cloth  hat  in 
one  hand,  Francis  trying  to  digest  facts  about  advanced 
women.  His  thoughts  did  not  come  with  any  clearness; 
in  fact,  he  felt  in  some  way  clogged  up,  as  he  had  felt  dur- 
ing much  of  his  eventful  evening  with  Miss  Winton. 

Another  pair  of  green  lights  appeared  out  of  the  mist, 
and  McNab  interviewed  a  very  surly  sergeant  sitting  be- 
hind the  green  grating  in  the  front  room.  McNab  began 
his  interview  by  giving  the  surly  sergeant  a  cigar;  the 
surly  sergeant  reciprocated  by  blurting  out  the  details  of  a 
couple  of  "stories"  while  the  reporter  thankfully  made 
notes  on  a  pad  of  copy-paper. 

At  a  neighboring  saloon,  on  McNab's  insistence,  they 
stopped  for  a  smile  on  their  luck  with  the  surly  sergeant. 
Francis  dutifully  proposed  another,  and  McNab,  though 
a  little  surprised,  said  he  guessed  he'd  go  it,  seeing  that 
it  was  an  extra-special  occasion;  he  didn't  have  the 
pleasure  of  intellectual  converse  every  night. 

Francis  walked  carefully  as  he  returned  to  the  street; 
he  had  more  alcohol  in  his  stomach  than  he  had  ever  had 
at  any  one  time  in  his  life.  He  was  filled  with  a  vague, 
trance-like  amazement  that  he  could  be  so  different  while 
McNab  seemed  just  the  same  as  usual.  He  found  himself 
accepting  McNab's  offer  of  a  cigar.  He  did  not  wish  the 
cigar;  he  wondered  why  he  accepted  it. 

"I  keep  'em  to  give  to  the  surly  cops,"  explained  the  re- 
porter, lighting  one  himself.  "For  the  friendly  cops, 
hot  air;  for  the  surly  devils,  cigars." 

"  It  seems,"  said  Francis,  and  paused  to  light  his  cigar — 
since  he  had  accepted  a  cigar  it  seemed  proper  to  light  it — 
"it  seems  odd  that  the  surly  ones  should  fare  better  than 
the  polite  ones." 

"Aw?  that's  life,  you  old  philosopher!"  cried  McNab, 

127 


Second    Youth 


clapping  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  The  surly  beggars  always 
get  the  best  of  it!" 

Francis  resisted  the  shock  much  better  than  he  would 
have  expected.  His  side  motion  was  checked  long  before 
he  was  in  danger  of  stepping  off  the  sidewalk. 

"Perhaps  that's  not  altogether  true,"  he  argued,  pleased 
to  find  his  brain  still  docile,  though  his  feet  seemed  strange 
and  far  away.  "Even  if  the  surly  man  gets  the  cigars, 
is  it  not  possible  that  he  has,  on  the  whole,  a  less  happy 
life  than  the  man  with  the  happier  disposition?  After  all, 
the  material  is  not  all — is  it?" 

"A  Daniel  come  to  judgment!"  declared  McNab,  seiz- 
ing Francis's  arm  and  beaming  at  him  with  the  ruddi- 
ness of  good-fellowship  and  four  somewhat  mixed  drinks. 
"I  took  a  course  in  philosophy  once.  I  get  you  a  whole 
lot  better  'n  you  may  think!" 

With  remarkable  boldness  Francis  continued,  "  Emerson 
would  agree  with  us;  for  he  follows  Plato  in  holding  that 
outward  semblances  are  merely  a  shell  for  the  spirit, 
which—" 

"They  are!"  agreed  McNab,  waving  the  arm  that  was 
not  linked  in  Mr.  Francis's.  "I  does  me  good  to  hear  it. 
I've  been  swamped  in  a  flood  of  materialism  ever  since  I 
hit  this  materialistic  Babylon!  Mr.  Francis,  I  hope  that 
you  and  I  will  always  agree  so  well — and  that  you'll  allow 
me  to  be  your  friend  indefinitely!"  He  shook  his  head 
to  toss  back  his  lank  black  hair.  "  I'm  sentimental — I'm 
Highland  Scotch  for  ten  generations,  and  I'm  easily 
affected  by—" 

"I  am  more  glad  than  I  can  say  to  have  your  friend- 
ship!" interrupted  Francis,  his  long  loneliness  of  heart 
thawing  into  a  huskiness  of  voice,  a  dimness  of  eyes. 
He  lifted  his  arm  and  stuck  his  thumb  in  a  buttonhole  so 

128 


Second    Youth 


that  his  elbow  was  more  firmly  locked  on  McNab's  hand. 
"I  remember  a  bit  of  poetry  I  read  somewhere,"  he  con- 
tinued, as  they  strolled,  solemnly  because  of  the  sudden 
depth  of  feeling  between  them,  down  the  murky  street. 
"It  goes: 

"Love's  golden  chain  is  beautiful, 
But  Friendship's  links  are  steel." 

McNab  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  broke  away 
from  Mr.  Francis's  arm,  and  held  out  his  right  hand. 
"Shake!"  he  begged,  in  a  broken  voice.  "You're  right — 
to  the  devil  with  love's  golden  chain!  Friendship's  the 
thing!" 

Since  everything  around  him,  as  well  as  himself  from 
his  feet  up,  seemed  so  unnatural  and  unrestrained,  Francis 
was  not  overcome. 

"I  can  hardly  agree  with  you — not  in  entirety,"  he 
protested,  after  they  had  shaken  hands:  "for  gold,  as 
well  as  steel,  is  admirable,  and  to  be  used  in  its  proper 
place — " 

"You're  a  philosopher!"  interrupted  McNab.  "I  ad- 
mit I  may  have  been  too  hard  on  love.  I  apologize! 
My  experience  with  it  may  have  been  more  unfortunate 
than  yours — or  it  may  be  only  that  you  are  the  better 
philosopher!  For  you  are  a  philosopher — you  can't  deny 
it!  You  are  a  philosopher — my  friend!"  He  turned,  as 
if  under  the  impetus  of  a  sudden  dazzling  idea,  and  his 
eager  eyes  searched  the  neighborhood. 

"Come!"  he  commanded,  recapturing  Mr.  Francis's 
arm.  "Come,  my  friend!  I'm  no  decent  Scot  if  I  allow 
an  occasion  like  this  to  go  uncelebrated,  come  what  may! 
I  see  a  welcoming  light  calling  to  us  from  the  corner! 

We  must  crack  a  bottle  of  champagne — my  friend!     And 

129 


Second    Youth 


remember,  from  now  on,  that  Charlie's  my  name — was 
named  for  the  Bonnie  Prince — for  whom  many  a  McNab 
laid  down  his  life  in  the  old  days!  It's  a  good  name. 
Call  me  Charlie!" 

"With  great  pleasure,"  agreed  Mr.  Francis,  shuffling 
along  uncertainly  in  his  effort  to  keep  up  with  the  re- 
porter's briskness.  "But  I  must  insist,  then,  that  you 
call  me  by  my  own  first  name — Roland." 

"It's  a  real  name — a  fine-sounding  name!"  declared 
McNab,  hastening  then-  progress.  "  I  am  honored  by  be- 
ing allowed  to  use  it.  'Childe  Roland  to  the  dark  tower 
came!'" 

"Ah — Browning!"  gasped  Mr.  Francis,  breathless  be- 
tween haste  and  purest  delight.  "  My  father  left  a  book  of 
Browning.  I  have  many  times  read  all  of  Browning!" 

The  reporter  waved  his  hat  in  the  air.  "Think  of  find- 
ing a  man  who  knows  his  Browning — on  the  streets  of 
New  York!"  he  cried.  "This  is  too  much — too  much! 
'Fear  death — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat,  the  mist  in 
my  face — '  Wine,  wine  to  pour  a  libation!"  He  slack- 
ened his  pace  and  tone  abruptly.  "You  won't  think  I'm 
— I'm  affected,  will  you?"  he  begged. 

Francis  assured  him,  with  great  truthfulness,  "Why, 
I'm  twice  as  much  affected  as  you  are!" 

McNab  was  encouraged.  "You're  not  bad — and  there 
are  times  when  it  is  good  for  generally  sober  men  to  loosen 
up  a  bit,"  he  argued.  "Samuel  Butler  says  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  stimulants  the  race  wouldn't  have  reached  its 
present  high  level;  and  Gilbert  Chesterton  says  much  the 
same  thing  at  greater  length.  Of  course  that's  no  excuse 
for  tippling,  as  a  rule,  but — " 

They  had  reached  the  side-door  of  the  saloon,  and 

McNab  interrupted  himself  to  push  open  the  little  swing- 
ISO 


Second    Youth 


ing  fly  for  Mr.  Francis,  bow  as  to  a  courtly  superior,  and 
usher  him  into  the  sitting-room  of  the  place. 

Francis  looked  around  with  a  far-away  wonder  and 
curiosity. 

He  noticed,  first,  that  there  were  two  women  and  a  man 
sitting  at  one  of  the  little  red-topped  tables  in  the  little 
red-paneled  inclosure.  The  man  leaned  his  elbow  on  the 
table  in  a  half -awake  stupor;  he  looked  something  like  the 
cartoons  of  Tammany  aldermen. 

Of  the  women,  one  was  tall,  fleshy,  blond,  neatly 
dressed  in  black-and-white-striped  muslin.  The  other 
was  slender  and  dark.  She  wore  a  wide  black  picture- 
hat,  and  her  dress  was  a  simple  slip  of  taupe  charmeuse 
with  a  bright  red  girdle  and  collar.  Her  complexion  was 
as  abnormally  perfect  as  a  bisque  doll's,  her  eyebrows  were 
abnormally  black,  and  her  large,  dark  eyes  looked  tired. 
She  brightened  up  a  bit  and  smiled  faintly  as  Francis 
looked  at  her.  Francis  immediately  turned  his  eyes  away. 

McNab  was  already  trying  to  convince  a  shirt-sleeved 
waiter  that  they  really  wanted  a  quart  of  champagne, 
wanted  it  right  away,  and  had  the  money  to  pay  for  it. 
A  quotation  from  Alexander  Pope  occurred  to  Francis. 
He  repeated  it  under  his  breath,  staring  into  the  gleaming, 
dark  red  depths  of  the  table-top. 

"See  you  immersed  in  thought,  Roland,"  said  McNab, 
victorious  over  the  waiter's  disbelief,  "and  I  see  your  lips 
moving.  Tell  it  out  to  the  people!" 

Francis  looked  alarmed.  "Why — it  was  merely  a  line 
of  poetry,"  he  explained,  in  a  lowered,  abashed  voice. 
"Just  a  couplet  from  Pope."  He  glanced  in  the  direction 
of  the  other  table. 

" Pope-^-certainly — I'll    bet    I    know    what    it    was!" 

McNab  leaned  across  the  table  and  repeated  in  a  whisper: 

131 


Second    Youth 


"Vice  is  a  monster  of  such  dreadful  mien 
That  to  be  hated  needs  but  to  be  seen!" 

"It's  curious  that  you  knew  it,  too,"  muttered  Francis; 
and  yet  that  did  not  seem  more  curious  than  everything 
else. 

"Oh,  everybody  knows  that  couplet,"  explained  McNab, 
with  a  glance  at  the  other  table.  "And  everybody  thinks 
of  it  at  moments  like  this!" 

Francis  permitted  himself  a  glance  at  the  other  table 
also.  The  man  was  lolling  back  in  his  chair  with  his  eyes 
closed;  the  two  women  were  much  interested  in  the 
gentlemen  whose  order  for  champagne  had  just  been 
impressed  on  the  waiter. 

"  Go  on  with  the  next  couplet — it's  just  as  true — maybe 
more  so,"  said  McNab. 

Francis  was  obliged  to  admit  that  he  did  not  know  it. 
"I  wouldn't  have  remembered  those  lines  if  they  hadn't 
been  in  a  school  reader  that  I  had — when  I  was  a  boy, 
you  know,"  he  explained. 

McNab  laughed  silently,  with  half -open  mouth.  "That's 
good — that's  awful  good — a  sample  of  the  way  they  pre- 
pare nutriment  for  the  youthful  mind!"  he  said,  and 
quoted: 

"But  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  her  face, 
We  first  despise,  then  pity,  then  embrace." 

"That's  very  interesting,"  said  Francis.  His  glasses 
showed  a  tendency  to  fall  off,  and  he  put  them  back  firmly 
on  the  bridge  of  his  nose.  "They  are  perhaps  as  true 
as  the  ones  I  quoted." 

"Truer!" 

"I  wish  you'd  explain." 

132 


Second    Youth 


"Take  a  normal  person,  give  him  his  first  look  at  vice, 
and  see  if  he  hates  it.  You've  got  to  have  some  knowledge 
of  vice,  of  how  good  it  sometimes  looks  on  the  outside, 
before  you  can  hate  it.  That's  the  reason  much  of  this 
mushily  moral  literature  is  so  immoral.  It  takes  Pope's 
standpoint  that  vice  looks  so  bad  you'll  hate  it  on  sight; 
and  Pope  was  a  pretty  average  poor  moralist.  Don't  you 
think  so?" 

Francis,  after  another  surreptitious  glance  at  the  next 
table,  found  it  necessary  to  agree. 

"They  don't  look — bad — do  they?"  he  queried,  leaning 
forward  to  whisper.  "And  yet,  of  course,  they  probably 
are." 

He  leaned  back,  becoming  less  personal,  more  philo- 
sophical. 

"By  reasoning  about  the  matter,  merely  by  using  the 
experience  of  others  and  one's  own  judgment — it  is  pos- 
sible to  get  that  knowledge — that  knowledge  which,  per- 
haps, Pope's  first  glance  might  not  give  at  all.  Knowl- 
edge need  not  be  gathered,  that  sort  of  knowledge,  too 
materialistically — enough  knowledge  may  be  gained  with- 
out dwelling  on  such  things,  passing  them  over  without 
being  too  explicit — too  materialistic — " 

"I  get  your  drift.     You're  right!" 

Francis  was  startled  by  the  violence  of  the  agree- 
ment. 

McNab  leaned  across  the  table  and  added:  "I  saw  you 
noticed  I  was  getting  interested  in  black  and  white 
stripes!  You  needn't  be  concerned — I  guess  we  agree  on 
that  subject  as  we  seem  to  on  a  good  many  others." 

Francis,  who  had  noticed  nothing  of  the  sort,  was  some- 
what muddled  by  this  confession.  "7  was  noticing  the 

one  in  the  taupe  charmeuse,"  he  murmured,  half  because 

133 


Second    Y outh 


he  was  surprised  into  perfect  frankness,  half  by  way  of 
confessing  his  similar  sins. 

McNab  raised  his  eyebrows,  somewhat  muddled  in  turn. 
The  shirt-sleeved  waiter  came  in  with  a  bottle,  showed  the 
label,  and  began  an  apology. 

"Open  her  up !"  commanded  McNab.  "  It's  not  as  good 
as  the  kind  I  ordered,  but  it  '11  do.  Say — put  your  apron 
around  the  cork  before  you  try  to  draw  it;  I  take  it 
you're  not  used  to — " 

The  cork  blew  out  with  a  "  Plop !"  The  floor  had  been 
well  sprinkled  before  McNab's  directions  had  any  effect 
on  the  startled  waiter.  The  two  women  laughed  lightly, 
and  the  comatose  alderman  roused  himself  enough  to  ask 
what  the  row  was  about. 

"Aw,  go  back  to  sleep!"  said  the  girl  in  black  and  white. 
"You're  drunk;  go  to  sleep  and  forget  it!" 

**  Jus'  you  say,"  agreed  the  alderman,  and  did  so. 

McNab  raised  his  glass,  a  little  self-consciously  because 
of  the  four  eyes  watching  them.  "  Maybe  it's  just  as  well 
some  was  wasted — it  shows  we're  liberal  or  we  wouldn*t 
have  ordered  a  quart — and  we  may  be  better  off  to-mor- 
row. To — to  our  friendship,  o'  man!" 

Francis  lifted  his  glass,  with  even  more  self -consciousness 
than  McNab  had  shown,  and  they  drank.  To  his  relief, 
the  stuff  was  not  nearly  as  bad  as  beer,  not  as  bad,  even, 
as  the  last  glass  of  Rhine  wine  had  been;  nevertheless,  the 
single  glass  of  it  gave  him  a  slight  feeling  of  nausea. 
McNab  gently  refilled  the  glasses.  "More  friendship!" 
he  proposed,  and  they  drank  again. 

McNab  replenished  the  glasses,  but  Francis  was  already 
having  trouble  with  the  two  previous  ones.  In  order  to 
conceal  it,  he  turned  a  little  aside,  and  put  one  hand  up 

to  his  face.    Thus  turned,  he  found  his  eyes  on  the  oc- 

134 


Second    Youth 


cupants  of  the  other  table.  He  permitted  himself  to 
meet  the  gaze  of  the  dark  eyes  under  the  picture-hat, 
the  eyes  that  belonged  to  the  girl  in  taupe  charmeuse.  It 
was  only  a  glance,  a  glance  of  renouncement.  When  he 
looked  back  at  McNab,  McNab's  eyebrows  were  raised 
again. 

Francis  flushed,  began  to  stammer  an  apology,  "Please 
— please  don't  think  for  a  minute — " 

McNab's  eyes,  by  trailing  off  suddenly  in  the  direction 
of  the  other  table,  interrupted  him.  He  turned  to  see 
what  McNab  was  looking  at.  The  girl  in  the  taupe 
charmeuse  was  already  on  her  way  over  to  their  table; 
the  girl  in  black  and  white  was  following. 

Taupe  charmeuse  brushed  Mr.  Francis's  elbow,  but  his 
eyes  were  fastened  on  his  glass. 

"You  might  let  us  in  on  a  little  of  that,"  said  the  girl; 
"it's  been  a  long  time  since  me  and  my  friend  has  had 
any  real  bubbly  water." 

So  that  was  all;  he  had  expected  he  knew  not  what. 
If  she  merely  wished  the  champagne,  she  was  more  than 
welcome  to  it.  He  pushed  it  toward  her  without  glancing 
up.  Across  the  table  he  saw  the  black-and-white-gowned 
girl  seat  herself,  somewhat  sheepishly,  beside  McNab, 
and  put  one  hand  on  the  back  of  his  chair. 

"I  don't  think  it  was  polite  for  you  to  be  drinking 
all  the  wealthy  water  while  our  tongues  were  hanging 
out!" 

The  voice  came  from  close  beside  Mr.  Francis's  ear; 
the  girl  in  taupe  charmeuse  had  drawn  a  chair  up  beside 
his,  had  put  her  two  hands  on  the  table,  and  was  leaning 
toward  him.  Francis's  head  whirled,  whirled,  whirled, 
with  a  clamorous  buzzing  sound  that  seemed  to  £01  the 
air  all  about  him. 

135 


Second    Youth 


Said  McNab,  slowly,  paying  no  attention  whatever  to 
the  girl  beside  him,  "  Childe  Roland  to  the  dark  tower  came." 

There  was  something  faintly  insulting  about  McNab's 
use  of  the  quotation :  McNab  seemed  to  be  looking  down 
from  a  superior  height.  Francis  resented  the  superiority. 
As  when  Miss  Winton  had  permitted  her  consciousness 
of  superiority  to  show  too  plainly,  Francis's  back  began  to 
stiffen.  What  was  McNab  so  superior  about?  McNab 
had  no  right  to  be  so  superior. 

McNab  rose,  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  bowed  to  the 
lady  whose  hand  he  had  displaced. 

"You're  welcome  to  the  wealthy  water — there's  quite 
a  little  left,"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  we  have  to  be  going — 
we're  only  poor  working-men.  Roland!" 

Francis  met  the  reporter's  obvious  expectation  by  rising, 
but  he  decided  to  have  it  out  with  McNab  outside, 
McNab  was,  probably,  not  entirely  accountable.  As  for 
himself,  even  if  everything  did  seem  a  trifle  unusual,  he 
was  perfectly  all  right.  The  only  downright  troublesome 
thing  was  that  clamorous  buzzing  sound  that  seemed  to 
fill  the  air  about  his  head.  He  glanced  around  the  room 
in  some  perplexity.  Over  at  the  other  table  the  alder- 
man was  snoring,  his  head  dropped  back  over  the  back 
of  his  chair,  his  mouth  wide  open. 

McNab  was  already  on  the  way  out,  and  Francis  fol- 
lowed. The  reporter  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  side- 
walk to  wait  for  him. 

"That  buzzing  sound  in  my  ears,"  Francis  declared, 
with  the  greatest  distinctness,  "was  nothing  whatever 
but  the  sound  of  that  man  snoring.  I  am  perfectly  all 
right." 

"Certainly  you  are — absolutely,  perfectly  all  right," 

agreed  McNab;   but  Francis  caught  the  babying  tone  of 

136 


Second    Youth 


the  assurance.  "I  just  remembered  that  I'd  have  to  get 
busy  on  the  job — and  I  hoped  you  wouldn't  mind  if  we 
went.  Maybe  I'd  better  tell  you  good  night  here.  I'll 
be  busy  as  a  cat  from  now  on  making  up  for  lost  time — 
and  I'll  admit  I'm  a  little  loggy  myself!" 

"Oh,  excuse  me — I  thought  you  were  intimating — " 
began  Francis. 

"Intimating  what,  o'  man?" 

"To  be  perfectly  plain — that  I'm  not  quite  responsible 
—Charlie." 

"Roland,  o'  man!"  The  reporter  solemnly  put  one 
hand  on  Francis's  shoulder  and  looked  him  in  the  face. 
"  I  suspect  we're  neither  of  us —  I  mean  I  know  just  how 
you  feel,"  he  continued,  and  the  protecting  tone  crept  out 
again;  "you're  all  right,  perfectly  all  right — but  you'd  be 
better  home,  o'  man!  Good  night,  now!  Sure  you  know 
the  way  home?" 

It  was  an  inauspicious  end  to  a  most  auspicious  begin- 
ning. They  shook  hands,  but  there  was  no  warmth  on 
either  side. 

"Say — promise  me  you'll  go  right  straight  home  to 
bed!"  begged  McNab,  fatherly,  condescending,  protecting. 

"Good  night,"  returned  Francis,  and  steered  himself  to 
port  and  made  off  in  the  way  they  had  come.  He  was 
sure  of  one  thing,  at  least — he  wouldn't  go  straight  home  to 
bed.  What  right  had  McNab  to  suggest  that  he  wasn't 
capable  of  taking  care  of  himself,  more  capable  than 
usual?  He'd  go  anywhere  before  he'd  go  straight  home 
to  bed.  Yes,  but  where?  He  knew  where  he'd  have  gone 
if  he  hadn't  been  ordered  to  be  less  conspicuous  in  his 
promenades  up  there. 

Ordered — what    right    had    anybody    to    order    him? 

McNab  had  just  ordered  him  home,  Miss  Winton  had 

10  137 


Second    Youth 


ordered  him  away  from  West  End  Avenue.  Well,  he 
would  show  both  of  them  at  one  stroke  that  he  was  not  to 
be  ordered;  he  wouldn't  go  home;  he  would  go  up  and 
promenade  on  West  End  Avenue — yes,  he  would  stand 
across  the  street  from  2067  and  look  at  it  if  he  felt  in- 
clined. He  started  briskly  across  town  to  take  the 
Subway. 

"Iron!"  he  muttered  to  himself,  rolling  the  good  solid 
word  over  the  back  of  his  tongue,  growling  over  it  a  little. 
"A  man  has  got  to  have  some  iron  in  his  disposition!" 


IX 


HE    MEETS    TWO    UNACCOUNTABLE    GENTLEMEN,    ONE    OF 
WHOM  HE  DECIDES  HE  HAS  SEEN  BEFORE 

MR.  FRANCIS  noticed  two  variations  from  normal 
while  he  rode  up-town  in  the  Subway.  One  was 
that  the  cars  tended  to  roll  more  than  usual.  The  other 
was  that  his  glasses  kept  falling  off.  He  decided  that  the 
rolling  motion  was  due  to  a  reckless  motorman,  and  that 
the  rolling  motion  made  the  glasses  fall  off. 

"Stay  off,  then!"  he  told  the  glasses,  after  they  had 
dropped  into  his  lap  for  the  third  consecutive  time,  and 
slipped  them  into  the  outside  breast  pocket  of  his  coat. 

He  saw  rather  better  without  them.  In  fact,  he  had  not 
got  them,  in  the  first  place,  so  much  because  he  thought  they 
would  improve  his  vision  as  because  he  anticipated  that 
they  would  make  him  look  more  dignified,  set  up  a  protec- 
tive barrier,  in  some  way,  between  him  and  the  world. 

They  had  fulfilled  his  expectations  by  being  of  service 
much  in  the  manner  of  the  now  discarded  black  cutaway 
coat.  The  dignified  garment,  the  dignified  gold-rimmed 
glasses,  had  been  grateful  to  him  somewhat  as  protective 
coloring  is  grateful  to  the  weaker  animals  of  the  jungle. 
They  gave  him  the  air  of  being  less  easy  prey;  he 
could  withdraw  behind  them  as  behind  a  tangible  bar- 
rier. Formerly,  on  the  days  when  he  had  for  any  reason 
been  compelled  to  go  without  his  glasses,  he  had  felt  a 

139 


Second    Youth 


little  ashamed,  a  little  exposed  and  helpless,  as  he  had 
felt  when  he  first  discarded  the  black  cutaway  for  the 
short-tailed  business  coat.  It  was  a  further  sign  of  Mr. 
Francis's  changed  attitude  toward  the  world  that  he 
looked  on  it  as  boldly,  that  evening,  without  the  protection 
of  his  glasses  as  he  had  formerly  when  backed  up  by  them 
and  by  the  dignity  of  a  long-tailed  coat  to  boot.  His 
exhilaration  had  something  to  do  with  the  change  in 
him,  but  it  was  really  more  fundamental  than  that. 

He  missed  his  cane  after  he  had  left  the  Subway  and 
started  to  stroll  the  cross-town  block  to  West  End  Avenue. 
The  cane,  also,  served  him  as  a  barrier,  a  defense,  but 
there  was  one  great  difference.  The  coat  and  the  glasses 
were  more  distinctly  weapons  of  defense,  the  cane  in- 
cluded possibilities  of  offense.  Mr.  Francis's  attitude 
toward  things  in  general  had  changed  from  purely  de- 
fensive to  defensive  tempered  by  the  possibility  of  offense. 
He  was  far  from  having  reached  the  advanced  and  dan- 
gerous level  of  a  belief  in  the  offensive  as  the  best  form  of 
defense;  there  was  too  much  Anglo-Saxon  in  him  for  that. 
He  merely  lifted  his  head  with  a  new  consciousness  that 
no  one  could  strike  at  it  without  danger  of  being  struck 
at  in  turn,  and  was  content.  He  had  introduced  measures 
of  preparedness. 

There  was  a  man,  a  derby-hatted,  dark-suited  man, 
standing  on  the  corner  nearest  2067  when  Francis  turned 
into  the  quiet,  maple-shaded  residence  street.  Francis  re- 
pressed a  tendency  to  look  the  other  way  and  hurry  along. 
He  walked  slowly  until  he  was  opposite  the  entrance  of 
2067;  in  the  shadow  of  a  maple-tree  he  stopped  and 
stared  through  the  moving  mist-curtain  at  the  layered 
collection  of  homes  across  the  street. 

The  dim  yellowish  light  shone  in  the  apartment  which 

140 


Second    Youth 


he  had  decided,  without  any  reason  whatever,  appertained 
to  the  lady  of  his  heart. 

The  sight  softened  him,  made  him  melancholy.  He 
leaned  against  the  bole  of  the  maple-tree,  feeling,  and 
looking,  forlorn.  Three  weeks'  daily  use  of  the  summer 
suit  had  made  it  less  natty,  the  mist  had  spoiled  the  shine 
on  the  tan  oxfords,  the  straw  hat  was  tilted  a  little  over 
his  eyes,  and  his  necktie  had  gone  slightly  awry.  He  did 
not  look  so  much  the  gentleman  as  usual. 

To  add  to  his  forlornness,  he  began  to  have  feelings 
of  dizziness  and  nausea,  slight  feelings,  but  disturbing. 
He  walked  a  little  way  down  the  sidewalk,  with  his  hands 
thrust  into  his  coat  pockets,  his  shoulders  hunched  up 
against  the  chilly  dampness,  and  slowly  walked  back  to 
his  tree. 

The  derby-hatted  man  he  had  seen  on  the  neighboring 
corner  strolled  up  to  him.  Mr.  Francis  resisted  a  tempta- 
tion to  go  away;  after  all,  he  had  a  perfect  right  to  be 
there. 

"You're  not  from  Skeffington's,  are  you?"  asked  the 
derby-hatted  man. 

Mr.  Francis  said,  shortly,  that  he  was  not.  He  had 
never  heard  of  Skeffington's. 

"They  promised  to  send  me  a  relief  at  nine  o'clock," 
grumbled  the  man.  He,  also,  looked  rather  forlorn.  "I 
been  here  ever  since  two  o'clock  this  afternoon — no  time 
off  for  anything  to  eat." 

"Too  bad,"  commented  Francis.  He  got  a  whiff  of  the 
man's  breath,  and  decided  that  the  man  hadn't,  at  least, 
been  deprived  of  something  to  drink.  Mr.  Francis  at 
once  felt  superior  to  him,  slightly  condescending.  The 
man  had  been  drinking. 

" It's  a  dog's  life — a  dog's  life!"    As  he  pushed  back  the 

141 


Second    Youth 


black  derby  from  his  forehead  the  man's  face  looked  a 
trifle  flushed.  He  distinctly  had  had  more  than  was  good 
for  him.  That  was  the  reason,  Mr.  Francis  realized,  that 
his  talk  was  disconnected,  meaningless. 

"I  say — you  goin'  to  be  here  a  little  while?"  asked  the 
man,  in  a  wheedling,  slightly  muddled  tone. 

"Might  be,  might  not,"  Francis  told  him.  It  did  not 
pay  to  become  too  intimate  with  drinking  characters. 

"I  thought  if  you  was,"  explained  the  other,  "you 
might  just  kinda  keep  your  eye  on  that  doorway  over 
there  for  me." 

Francis  was  surprised,  confused.  Was  it  possible  that 
this  man,  also,  had  sentimental  connections  with  2067 
West  End  Avenue?  He'd  been  watching  there,  then,  from 
two  o'clock  without  even  going  away  for  dinner.  Francis 
looked  at  him  with  new  interest.  Drinking  character 
though  he  undoubtedly  was,  they  might  have  a  secret 
bond  of  sympathy. 

"It  'u'd  give  me  a  chance  to  step  around  on  Broadway 
and  git  a  sandwich  and  a  cup  o'  coffee,"  explained  the 
man,  with  humbleness  that  further  predisposed  Mr. 
Francis  in  his  favor.  "I'm  empty  to  my  heels — and  I 
wouldn't  be  gone  long.  I'd  be  glad  to  pay  you  for  your 
trouble — "  He  hesitated,  slipping  one  hand  into  a  side 
pocket. 

Francis  told  him,  magnanimously:  "Oh,  that  '11  be  all 
right.  I'll  be  glad  to  wait  until  you  return — if  you're  not 
gone  too  long." 

"That's  good.  Here!"  The  derby-hatted  man,  much 
cheered,  produced  a  pocket  flask  and  pointed  it  at  Mr. 
Francis's  midriff. 

Mr.  Francis  waved  it  away.     "Just  as  much  obliged — 

never  drink,"  he  said, 

142 


Second    Youth 


"Oh — excuse  me.  No  harm  done,  I  hope!"  The  bot- 
tle went  back  out  of  sight  and  a  faint  look  of  surprise  ap- 
peared on  the  drinking  character's  face.  "Well,  I  don't, 
either — as  a  rule.  Couldn't,  and  hold  my  job.  Now,  all 
you  have  to  do  is  just  keep  your  eye  on  that  doorway 
over  there."  He  motioned  toward  the  gleaming  white 
entrance  of  2067.  "And  tell  me  whether  anybody  goes 
in,  and  if  so  what  they  look  like.  Especially  if  any  single 
gentlemen  go  in — any  men  by  themselves,  you  know." 

"I  see."  Mr.  Francis  was  greatly  puzzled.  He  saw 
very  little,  and  that  little  seemed  strange. 

"I  wouldn't  bother  you —  There's  no  likelihood,  you 
know,  the  party  I'm  lookin'  for  will  go  in — it's  going  to 
be  a  jobbed  case,  anyway,"  the  man  went  on.  "I'm 
wastin*  my  time  here — been  here  most  of  five  days,  and 
nothin*  happened.  Just  in  case  anybody  should  be  around 
from  headquarters,  I  want  to  say  I  hired  a  substitute,  so 
there  '11  be  no  come-back.  See?  It's  a  divorce  case,  you 
understand — suppose  you  knew  that  when  I  mentioned 
Skeffington's — they  handle  nothing  but  divorce,  you  know. 
Rotten  business." 

"I  see,"  repeated  Mr.  Francis.  The  man  was  evidently 
unaccountable. 

"Back  in  a  few  minutes — just  sorta  keep  your  eye 
peeled.  So  long!" 

Mr.  Francis  solemnly  stared  after  the  derby-hatted 
man's  retreating  back.  "I  ought  to  have  accepted  his 
flask — and  put  it  in  my  pocket  for  safe-keeping,"  he  con- 
cluded. "That  man  is  clearly  unaccountable." 

He  leaned  against  the  bole  of  the  tree,  made  unsteady 
by  a  slight  return  of  his  nausea  and  dizziness.  "I  seem 
to — to  need  something,"  he  complained,  and  the  thought 
of  the  coffee  toward  which  the  derby-hatted  man  had  gone 

143 


Second    Youth 


was  suddenly  attractive  to  him.  "But  I  never  drink 
coffee  a'  nights;  it  keeps  a  man  awake — the  caffeine  in 
it,"  he  explained  to  himself. 

The  mist  began  to  be  mixed  with  a  faint  rain;  the 
drifting  curtain  of  fog,  lighted  up  by  the  blinding  white 
light  of  the  tunnel-like  entrance  to  2067,  showed  faint 
diagonal  lines.  The  asphalt  between  darkened,  gleamed, 
wavered  before  his  eyes. 

"Oughtn't  be  standing  here — it's  beginning  to  rain,"  he 
complained  to  himself.  "Wish  I  hadn't  promised  that 
man  to  stay.  I  feel  downright  miserable!" 

The  pavement  swayed  suddenly,  but  he  was  cheered  to 
find  that  it  had  only  seemed  to  sway  as  a  result  of  the 
slipping  of  the  shoulder  by  which  he  was  supporting  him- 
self against  the  tree.  It  seemed  a  long  time  since  the 
derby-hatted  man  had  gone,  hours,  uncomfortable,  dizzy- 
ing, nauseating  hours.  His  ears  were  stuffy  and  as  the 
pavement  crawled  uneasily  in  the  light  they  hummed  a  sort 
of  uncomfortable  nonsense  verse  in  time  to  the  move- 
ments, the  words  of  which  went  "Dizzy,  dizzy — dizzy, 
dizzy." 

"Aw — nasty  night!"  said  a  man's  voice  directly  behind 
him. 

Mr.  Francis  was  shocked  into  sudden  uprightness. 
The  ringing  in  his  ears  ceased  as  if  by  magic.  He  turned 
slowly,  getting  himself  in  hand,  calling  up  his  reserve  of 
dignity. 

"No  developments?"  asked  the  new-comer. 

Francis  saw  that  he  wore  a  derby  hat,  that  his  build 
was  short  and  stocky  like  the  build  of  his  recent  derby- 
hatted  acquaintance,  and  that  he  wore  a  tan  raincoat. 
Even  without  the  distinguishing  characteristic  of  the  rain- 
coat, Mr,  Francis  decided,  there  would  have  been  no 

144 


Second    Youth 


difficulty  in  distinguishing  this  derby-hatted  man  from 
the  other.  There  was  a  keenness  about  this  man,  an  air 
of  snappy,  conscious  superiority. 

"No  developments?"  he  repeated. 

Francis  was  evidently  expected  to  say  no,  so  he  said  it. 

"Well,  don't  worry  about  it;  we'll  fix  it  up  all  right, 
whether  there  is  or  not,"  returned  the  tan-raincoated  man, 
superior,  condescending,  faintly  amused  by  something. 
"There's  more  than  one  way  of  killing  a  cat — human  as 
well  as  four-legged.  I  guess  you'll  be  up  to  the  scratch 
when  the  trick's  pulled  off,  eh?" 

Mr.  Francis  made  no  reply  to  these  nonsensical  observa- 
tions. He  was  piqued  by  the  man's  calm  assumption  of 
superiority;  even  in  spite  of  nausea  and  dizziness,  he  was 
distinctly  piqued.  He  stared  at  the  tan-raincoated  man 
with  reserve  and  preparedness. 

"  Guess  I  haven't  met  you  before?"  The  tan-raincoated 
man  seemed  both  amused  and  pleased  by  Francis's 
dumbness. 

"You  have  not,"  said  Francis. 

The  man  laughed  shortly,  a  gruff  chuckle,  and  came  a 
step  nearer.  "  Well,  you're  certainly  tight-mouthed — that 
other  fellow  struck  me  as  being  too  much  of  a  talker. 
Opened  up  to  me  even  before  I  told  him  who  I  was. 
I  didn't  like  it.  Keep  your  mouth  shut  and  nothing  will 
jump  out,  eh?" 

Mr.  Francis  showed  only  by  a  stiffening  of  backbone 
that  he  wasn't  deaf. 

"I'm  the  complainant — if  you'll  take  my  word  for  it," 
went  on  the  tan-raincoated  man,  genially.  "Thought  I'd 
just  step  around  and  make  sure  some  one  was  on  the  job, 
seeing  that  I  settle  the  bills.  I  suppose  it's  just  a  wild- 
goose  chase,  but,  of  course,  if  we  can  get  some  real  goods — 


Second    Youth 


they'll  do  to  help  out  the  faked  ones.  Never  fake,  my 
tight-mouthed  son,  unless  it's  absolutely  necessary!" 

Mr.  Francis  replied,  speaking  the  words  slowly  so  that 
they  would  carry  the  added  sting  of  perfect  English,  "  I  do 
not  think  I  remember  having  asked  you  for  any  advice." 

The  tan-raincoated  man  let  out  a  perfect  guffaw  of 
delight,  standing  with  his  legs  wide  apart,  supporting  him- 
self on  a  rolled  umbrella.  And  with  the  guffaw,  borne 
upon  its  noisy  wings  as  it  were,  came  a  telltale  odor. 

Mr.  Francis  was  at  once  soothed,  restored  to  his  com- 
fortable feeling  of  equality,  almost  of  superiority.  The 
tan-raincoated  man,  also,  was  unaccountable.  It  was 
peculiar  what  a  number  of  loose-talking,  nonsensical, 
absolutely  unaccountable  men  were  abroad  that  evening. 

"You'll  do!"  gurgled  the  man,  at  once  admiring  and 
superior.  "The  clam  attitude  for  yours!  Let  me  do  the 
talking,  and  do  none  yourself!  That  other  chap — you 
ought  to  give  him  a  lesson  or  two!  But,  seriously  now, 
Mr.  Deteckatiff"  —  the  tan-raincoated  man  became 
suddenly  serious,  confidential — "have  you  noticed  any- 
thing resembling  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses,  a  cane,  and  a 
dignified  air  around  this  evening?" 

Mr.  Francis  was  vaguely  stirred  by  the  description, 
especially  the  mention  of  gold  eye-glasses;  but  he  at  once 
remembered  that  the  man  was  talking  nonsense,  was  quite 
unaccountable.  Accordingly  he  did  not  bother  himself  to 
reply. 

"Well — I  suppose  you're  right!"  commented  the  tan- 
raincoated  man,  glancing  along  the  sidewalk,  obviously 
giving  him  up  as  a  hard  case.  "But  there  ought  to  be 
something  in  it.  Both  the  hall-boy  and  the  "  coon  "  talked 
straight.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  had  sense  enough 
to  get  you  fellows  on  the  job  before  it  happened — but  I 


Second    Youth 


never  suspected — "  He  turned  slowly  away,  glancing 
down  at  the  tip  of  his  umbrella  on  the  sidewalk.  "  In  fact, 
I  can't  believe  it  yet.  Still,  you  can  never  tell  anything 
about  these  women — you  may  think  you  know  'em  from 
A  to  Z.  Well,  keep  your  eye  peeled.  Good  night!"  he 
finished  abruptly  and  strode  off  toward  Broadway. 

He  left  Francis  in  the  grip  of  a  terrific  problem.  The 
mention  of  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses,  a  cane,  a  dignified  air, 
and  "straight  talk"  from  the  hall-boy  and  "coon"  had 
nothing  to  do  with  this  problem:  that  loose  talk  from  a 
man  who  was  evidently  a  drinking  character  had  slid 
off  him  like  water  off  a  duck's  back,  a  very  well  oiled 
duck's  back,  too.  The  problem  that  swam  around  in 
Mr.  Francis's  mind,  along  with  other  swimming  things 
that  became  more  lively  as  soon  as  the  unaccountable 
character  had  departed,  had  to  do  with  seeing  rather  than 
hearing. 

The  appearance  of  the  tan-raincoated  man's  profile,  as 
he  turned  to  go  and  glanced  down  to  the  sidewalk,  the 
curve  of  the  tan  raincoat  along  his  shoulder,  the  heavy 
jowls  spreading  out  a  little  above  the  white  collar,  the 
keen,  meditative,  somewhat  ferine  stare  of  the  half- 
closed  eyes,  all  of  it  struck  on  some  memory  in  Mr. 
Francis's  mind.  It  was  an  unpleasant  memory,  and  yet 
linked  with  exciting,  ecstatic  things,  also.  He  had  seen 
that  combination  of  lines,  colors,  and  features  before. 

He  started  to  walk  along  the  sidewalk,  forgetting  that 
he  had  been  set  to  watch  the  entrance  of  his  lady's  apart- 
ment-house; he  wrestled  with  the  problem;  he  was  sure 
that,  if  something  nauseating  and  dizzying  hadn't  been 
clogging  his  mind,  he  could  have  solved  it,  and  that  the 
solution  would  interest  him. 

Almost  without  his  feeble  efforts,  his  memory  channels 

147 


Second    Youth 


cleared,  on  a  sudden  the  two  experiences  were  linked  up. 
He  had  seen  that  man  ogling  the  girl  in  the  drug-and- 
toilet  department  on  the  day  when  Miss  Winton  came  in 
for  the  third  time,  came  up  to  his  counter  so  changed, 
emboldened,  friendly,  and  invited  him  out  to  dinner. 

A  sudden  increase  of  his  physical  troubles  followed  the 
discovery,  as  if  his  mind  had  made  a  great  effort,  finished 
its  task,  and  relaxed.  He  staggered,  looked  around  help- 
lessly, and  saw  the  first  unaccountable  man  coming  toward 
him.  He  made  a  great  effort  to  seem  calm. 

"No  end  obliged  to  you!    Feel  like  a  new  man  now!" 

Mr.  Francis  recognized  with  a  feeling  of  gratitude  that 
the  man's  arm  would  be  a  good  thing  to  hold  on  to.  He 
accordingly  took  hold  of  it.  The  operation  seemed  to  give 
great  delight  to  the  derby-hatted  man. 

"So  that's  it— I  thought  I  couldn't  be  off!"  he  chuckled. 
"Where  do  you  live?" 

Mr.  Francis  murmured,  "'Leventh  Street." 

"Well,  you're  a  long  way  from  home!  Want  to  take 
the  Subway?" 

"Yes." 

"  I'll  help  you  as  far  as  the  corner,  anyway.  You'll  be 
all  right.  What  you  doin'  up  in  this  neighborhood,  any- 
way?" 

"  Come  to  see  lady — but  she  don'  want  to  see  me,"  ex- 
plained Francis,  lost  to  all  idea  of  caution,  even  of  self- 
respect,  toddling  along  with  the  assistance  of  a  firm  hand 
on  his  arm. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Mr.  Francis  felt  very,  very 
sick,  outcast,  forlorn. 

"What's  her  name?  Maybe  I  know  her."  The  derby- 
hatted  man's  voice  was  gentle,  but  Francis  felt  a  tightening 
of  the  hand  on  his  arm;  he  verily  felt  a  sudden  tightening 

148 


Second    Youth 


of  something  behind  the  man's  voice.  This  did  not  keep 
him  from  blurting  out  the  exact  truth,  with  the  frankness 
of  a  dependent  child: 

"Miss  Winton." 

"No — I  don't  know  her — sorry  to  say."  The  man's 
voice,  also,  sounded  as  if  he  were  sorry,  deeply  dis- 
appointed. 

As  they  came  within  range  of  the  corner  lamp  Francis 
felt  that  the  man  was  holding  him  at  a  little  distance, 
keenly  looking  him  over. 

"See  anybody  while  I  was  away?" 

Francis  was  sure  the  man  had  had  a  disappointment; 
he  was  sorry  for  that;  the  man  was  very  friendly  and  of 
much  assistance  in  walking. 

"  One  man — man  in  tan  raincoat — came  up — talked  lot 
of  nonsense  to  me." 

"Tan  raincoat — derby  hat — beefy  fellow — eyes  like  a 
razor?"  The  derby-hatted  man  was  suddenly  alive  to  a 
new  interest. 

"Yes." 

"Great  guns!  That  was  the  money-bag — that  was 
Twombly  himself !  I  hope  you  didn't  let  him  see — see  that 
you  weren't  all  there?" 

Mr.  Francis  staggered,  almost  fell. 

"Here!"  The  derby-hatted  man  retrieved  him,  gave 
him  a  shake.  "Think — listen  to  me — just  a  minute! 
Twombly — he  didn't  ask  for  me — he  didn't  suspect  any- 
thing, did  he?  What  the  deuce  did  you  say  to  him?" 

Francis  made  an  effort  to  be  indignant,  failed  miserably, 
and  stuttered,  "I  said  nothing  much — he  didn't  ask  for 
you — I  think  I  impressed  him — impressed  him — " 

"You  poor  boob!"  murmured  the  derby-hatted  man, 
commiseratingly.  "I  suppose  you've  lost  me  my  job. 

149 


Second    Youth 


Well — I  was  a  fool — my  mistake.  Now  go  along.  There's 
your  Subway  station  down  there — you  can  see  the  lights. 
Good  luck  to  you.  Go  along !" 

"Tut-tut-twombly!"  gasped  Francis,  standing  where 
he  had  been  cast  adrift,  anxious  for  further  enlight- 
enment, but  the  derby-hatted  man  was  retreating  at  a 
pace  that  would  have  made  pursuit  strenuous,  if  not 
impossible.  "Tut-twombly!"  repeated  Francis,  and  went 
along. 

The  small,  good-natured  god  who  protects  fools  and  un- 
accountable persons  went  with  him.  The  god,  as  usual, 
was  much  overworked  that  evening,  but  his  practised 
eye  had  recognized  Mr.  Francis  as  a  first  offender  as  well 
as  an  offender  who  would  probably  be  capable  of  a  good, 
solid  repentance;  therefore  he  had  stood  by  for  the  past 
fifteen  minutes,  and  therefore  he  continued  to  stand  by 
until  Francis  was  safely  in  his  own  bed. 


X 


MRS.  BENSON  BEGINS  TO  REAP  WHERE  ANOTHER  HAS  SOWN 

FRANCIS  awoke  with  the  feeling  that  some  one  was 
in  his  room,  had  spoken  to  him.  He  opened  his  eyes 
and  saw  Whiggam  standing  just  inside  his  door. 

"'Mornin',  o'  man!"  said  Whiggam.  Whiggam's  broad 
face  was  one  broad  grin.  "Heard  you  get  in  late.  Didn't 
hear  your  alarm-clock.  Anything  I  can  get  for  you? 
How  you  feel?" 

"Pretty  good,  thank  you,"  said  Francis.  His  head 
ached,  and  there  was  a  feeling  as  of  sand  in  his  throat. 

Whiggam  chuckled  with  appreciation.  "Know  just 
how  you  feel,"  he  said;  "knew  just  how  you  felt  last 
night  when  I  heard  you  stumble  up  the  stairs  and  bump 
against  my  door.  Couldn't  believe  it,  or  I'd  come  in  then. 
Accidents  will  happen  in  the  best  regulated  families, 
though,  won't  they?" 

Francis,  flushed  and  miserable,  admitted:  "It  wasn't 
altogether  an  accident.  I  should  have  known  better,  of 
course."  He  put  one  hand  to  his  head  and  closed  his 
eyes,  with  a  sudden  return  of  dizziness  and  nausea.  Also, 
somewhere  in  the  background  of  his  mind,  was  a  dizzying 
number  of  things  to  think  about. 

"Head  bad?"     Whiggam  was  sympathetic,  but  faintly 

pleased,  his  tone  indicated,  if  it  was.     "Still,  anybody 

151 


Second    Youth 


who  can  get  his  clothes  off  and  go  to  bed  ain't  gone  past 
the  limits!" 

"I  hardly  knew — I  hardly  remember  doing  it,"  said 
Francis.  "In  fact,  I  hardly  remember  anything — after 
I  got  on  the  Subway." 

"I  know  what  you  want,"  said  Whiggam;  "just  stay 
there  and  I'll  get  it  for  you!" 

He  disappeared  before  Francis  could  protest.  The 
alarm-clock  on  his  table  pointed  to  seven  o'clock;  he 
ought  to  be  getting  up,  but  he  hesitated  to  get  up  until 
after  Whiggam  had  returned  and  gone.  He  had  even 
felt  some  bashfulness  before  Whiggam  because  of  his 
intimate  garments  hung  up  to  air  near  the  window.  Even 
if  he  had  forgotten  to  wind  his  alarm-clock  he  had  not 
forgotten  to  hang  his  coat  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  to  dis- 
pose his  trousers  neatly  over  another,  and  to  decorate 
the  long  arm  of  his  gas-jet  with  his  socks  and  underwear. 

Whiggam  seemed  to  be  gone  a  long  time;  when  at  last 
the  door  opened,  it  was  not  Whiggam,  but  Mrs.  Benson, 
who  appeared. 

She  carried  a  steaming  coffee-cup  and  she  seemed  per- 
fectly at  her  ease.  Mr.  Francis,  dumfounded  by  this  in- 
vasion, cast  one  glance  at  his  displayed  underwear  and 
pulled  the  bedclothes  up  to  his  blushing  chin. 

"Whiggie  said  he'd  tend  to  you,"  she  told  him,  turning 
toward  him  after  carefully  closing  his  door,  "but  I  said 
for  him  to  run  along — I'd  just  look  after  you  myself." 

"It — it  was  very  kind  of  you!"  stammered  Francis, 
wondering  if  he  dared  to  put  out  an  arm,  clothed  only 
in  the  sleeve  of  a  night-shirt,  to  accept  the  cup  if  Mrs. 
Benson  insisted  on  his  accepting  it. 

She  pushed  a  chair  up  to  the  side  of  his  bed  and  sat 
down.  "I've  brung  you  a  cup  of  strong  black  coffee," 

152 


Second    Youth 


she  said,  and  her  large,  moon-shaped  face  was  lightened 
suddenly  by  a  smile  of  sympathy  and  amusement  that 
might  have  been  the  feminine  edition  of  Whiggam's. 
"Just  set  up,  now — you  must  drink  it  right  off — then 
you'll  feel  better." 

Mr.  Francis  made  half-hearted  motions  toward  sitting 
up;  of  course  his  night-shirt  had  a  high  collar,  much  like  a 
shirt  collar;  he  was  glad  it  wasn't  one  of  the  new  low- 
necked  ones  that  the  clerk  had  told  him  were  more  suit- 
able for  summer:  and  yet — 

"Why,  you're  about  all  in,  ain't  you!"  commented  Mrs. 
Benson,  who  put  the  steaming  cup  down  on  the  floor  and 
went  to  his  assistance.  Taking  him  firmly  by  one  arm, 
reaching  across  him  to  get  the  other  pillow,  she  pulled  him 
upward  until  he  was  in  an  almost  upright,  horribly  ex- 
posed condition.  Still,  he  was  not  so  abashed  as  he  might 
have  been  if  Mrs.  Benson  hadn't  undertaken  the  operation 
as  such  a  simple  matter  of  course. 

"There,  now — drink  it!"  she  commanded,  handing  him 
the  coffee  from  the  floor. 

Mr.  Francis  gingerly  took  a  sip;  it  was  good;  it  seemed 
to  help.  He  took  another  sip. 

Mrs.  Benson  commented  as  follows:  "Whiggie  wanted 
to  tell  me  that  you  had  a  stomach  attack;  but  I  know 
what's  the  matter  when  they  want  black  coffee  in  the 
morning.  I  wasn't  married  sixteen  years  for  nothing! 
You're  looking  better  already.  I'd  be  sorry,  though,  to 
think  it  was  going  to  become  habitual.  I've  seen  too 
much  of  the  way  men,  bachelor  men,  go  on.  Perfectly 
sober  men  have  come  to  my  house,  and  after  awhile — 
well,  they'd  begin  to  ask  for  plain  black  coffee  for  breakfast 
about  once  in  so  often.  It's  a  hard  life,  running  a  board- 
ing-house. A  woman  gets  hardly  anything  but  single 

II  153 


Second    Youth 


men,  and  no  man's  good  for  much  unless  he's  got  a  wife 
to  look  after  him.  Even  you,  now,  who've  stood  it  so 
well  all  these  years,  you're  comin'  to  it — and  it  makes 
me  feel  sad  to  see  it,  too.  No  man  without  a  wife  can 
keep  in  the  strait-and-narrer;  it's  bound  to  be  rum  if 
it's  nothing  worse.  I  see  a  lot  in  the  magazines  lately 
about  women  being  dependent,  that  they  ought  to  be  in- 
dependent of  men,  but  it  isn't  the  women  who're  de- 
pendent; it's  the  men.  If  the  people  who  write  such 
things  would  live  in  a  boarding-house  and  see  how  the 
men  get  on  without  any  woman  to  be  dependent  on 
they'd  change  their  minds.  I  always  used  to  wonder 
about  you,  but  now  even  you're  getting  the  habit  just 
like  the  others — and  I'm  sorry  to  see  it."  She  paused  for 
a  reply. 

"I  don't  think  it's  a  habit,  Mrs.  Benson,"  said  Francis, 
between  shamefaced  sips.  "A  habit  is  something  that 
becomes  habitual.  I  may  say  that  this  is  the  first  time — 
and  the  last!" 

Mrs.  Benson  at  once  continued:  "Oh,  that's  what  they 
all  say !  How  many  times  I've  heard  a  man  say  it  was  the 
last  time!  But  there's  only  one  cure — that's  getting  a 
woman  to  look  after  them,  and  make  them  a  home,  where 
they  can  be  comfortable  and  not  be  going  out  nights  to 
prowl  the  streets  like  a  lot  of  stray  tom-cats!  Oh,  I've 
seen  you  coming  to  it,  Mr.  Francis.  I've  seen  you  restless, 
and  lonesome,  and  looking  like  you  was  at  your  own 
funeral;  and  then  you'd  go  out  and  walk  till  all  hours — 
to  get  exercise,  you  say;  but  it  isn't  exercise  you  need, 
it's  a  woman  for  you  to  be  dependent  on  for  all  those 
things  a  man's  no  good  without  he's  got  a  woman  to  give 
him!  A  lot  of  you  bachelors  think  you  can  come  down 

here  and  be  independent,  and  free,  and  all  that  stuff. 

154 


Second    Youth 


Well,  a  woman  has  got  a  sight  better  chance  to  live 
through  five  years  of  that  sort  of  independence  than  a  man 
has — believe  me  that's  seen  something  of  what  I'm  talking 
about,  Mr.  Francis!" 

"I — I  dare  say  you're  right,"  said  Francis,  considerably 
moved.  "I  had  never  thought  of  it."  He  had  finished 
his  coffee;  he  glanced  at  the  alarm-clock.  "I'm  all  sorts 
of  ways  obliged  to  you  for  the  coffee,"  he  said,  hoping  that 
she  would  take  it  as  a  sign  that  he  was  through,  that  he 
wanted  to  get  up. 

Mrs.  Benson  did  not  rise  to  his  expectations.  With 
quick  friendliness,  if  nothing  more,  she  leaned  forward  and 
patted  his  hand.  Mr.  Francis,  startled,  drew  the  hand 
away. 

Mrs.  Benson  drew  herself  back,  sat  up  straight  in  her 
chair,  folded  her  arms,  and  said,  "Excuse  me,  Mr.  Fran- 
cis." A  sudden  hardness  had  come  out  on  the  round, 
motherly  softness  of  her  face. 

"Oh — please — "  begged  Mr.  Francis. 

"It  was  thoughtless  of  me,"  said  Mrs.  Benson;  her 
eyes  winked  rapidly. 

"I — it  was  just  an  impulse,  believe  me,  Mrs.  Benson," 
Francis  assured  her,  horrified  by  the  suspicion  that  she 
was  about  to  weep.  He  still  felt  shaky  and  sore-headed; 
he  was  not  prepared  to  have  her  weep.  "It  wasn't  that — 
that  I  objected  to  your  touch — you  know  that,  Mrs. 
Benson!" 

She  softened  as  suddenly  as  she  had  hardened.  "I 
thought  that  couldn't  be  it — after  you'd  kissed  my  hand 
that  time,"  she  murmured,  and  lifted  a  fold  of  her  long 
blue-checked  apron  and  dabbed  at  her  eyes.  "That  was 
the  only  time  any  one  ever  kissed  my  hand,  Mr.  Francis — 
and  you  don't  know  what  that  means  to  a  woman.  But 

155 


Second    Youth 


you  seemed  to  have  forgot  it;  and  just  now,  when  I, 
entirely  without  thinking — you  know  it  was  entirely  with- 
out thinking,  don't  you,  Mr.  Francis?" 

"Yes,  of  course  it  was!"  he  assured  her,  all  misery  and 
regret. 

"And  you  never — never  asked  me  out  anywhere  again," 
she  went  on,  giving  way  to  real  sobs  that  she  only  half- 
muffled  in  a  wad  of  her  apron.  "Nor  said  anything  more 
about  the  oyster  silk — that  you  was  kind  enough — " 

"But  it  wasn't  because  I  didn't  think  about  both  of 
those  things,  my  dear  Mrs.  Benson!"  interrupted  Francis, 
desperately.  "I've  been  so  busy,  you  know!" 

"A  man  is  never  too  busy,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Benson,  "to 
think  about  those  things — if  he  really — cares!" 

Francis  explained,  gripping  the  coffee-cup  in  one  hand, 
putting  the  other  to  his  bursting  head.  "That  dress — 
you  have  only  to  call  for  it.  You  knew  that,  didn't  you? 
And  I've  been  intending  to  ask  you  to  go  to  the  Empire 
vaudeville  almost  any  night.  I  tell  you  honestly — I've 
been  so  busy  I  hardly  have  had  time  to  turn  around!" 

She  dried  her  eyes  and  smiled  faintly.  "You're  so 
dreadfully  shy,"  she  murmured,  devouring  him  with 
her  eyes.  "I  hope  you'll  let  me  say  that  you're  shy 
without  its  hurting  your  feelings?" 

Francis  assured  her  that  he  would. 

"I  didn't  mention  either  the  dress  or  the  theater  to  you 
myself,"  she  went  on;  "of  course  I  could  hardly  call  'em  to 
your  mind,  you  being  a  man  and  I  a  woman,  could  I?  I 
thought  you  had  changed — but  now  I  see  I  was  wrong. 
You  got  such  a  sensitive,  shy  nature  I  hardly  ever  know 
how  to  take  you.  But  I  said  to  myself  that  no  man  like 
you,  with  that  frank,  open  character,  could  have  acted 
like  you  did  without — without  meaning  it.  And  now 

156 


Second    Youth 


I'm  glad  it's  all  cleared  up.  It  was  just  simply  making 
me  feel  bad  all  the  time !" 

She  dried  her  eyes  with  two  vigorous  rubs,  smiled 
cheerily,  and  gave  Mr.  Francis's  hand  another  pat.  He 
allowed  her  to  do  it;  not  by  an  eighth  of  an  inch  did  he 
yield  to  a  strong  temptation  to  draw  it  away.  Mrs. 
Benson  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  regarded  the  hand 
with  a  sort  of  mildly  proprietary  interest. 

"You  got  such  fine  hands,  Roland!"  she  commented. 
"I  always  have  admired  'em.  Without  believing  in 
palmistry,  or  anything  like  that,  I  think  there's  a  lot  of 
character  in  hands.  Now,  my  hands — "  She  interrupted 
herself  to  look  at  her  own  rather  stubby,  rather  red  and 
freckled  members.  "But  you  don't  think  they're  so  bad 
— or  you'd  never — never  have  printed  that — that  chaste 
kiss  on  this  one — would  you?" 

She  held  the  right  one  out  for  Mr.  Francis's  paralyzed 
inspection. 

"You  don't  think  I  got  a  bad  hand,"  she  pleaded,  "in 
spite  of  work  and  a  hard  life  not  leaving  it  as  delicate  and 
white  as  some?" 

Francis  stammered,  wildly  searching  his  brain  for  some 
excuse  to  terminate  his  wracking:  "It's  a  good  hand — 
competent — good  true  deeds  come  from  it — in  that 
sense  it's  a  beautiful  hand,  Mrs.  Benson!  I  sincerely 
admire  it!" 

"You  do  say  the  nicest  things,  Roland!"  she  com- 
mented, leaning  back  in  her  chair,  folding  her  arms 
across  her  matronly  bosom,  giving  every  evidence  of  pre- 
paring for  an  indefinite  stay.  Francis  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity offered  by  the  momentary  silence  to  mention 
that  he  must  get  up  at  once  or  he'd  be  late  to  the 

store. 

157 


Second    Youth 


Mrs.  Benson  was  compliant  beyond  his  expectation. 
"Why — I  ought  to  have  run  along  myself  a  long  time 
ago!"  she  said.  "Whatever  will  the  other  boarders  be 
thinking  of  me  staying  so  long  just  to  bring  you  a  cup  of 
coffee!  And  that  new  girl  I've  got  will  be  spoiling  the 
breakfast,  too,  probably!  And,  besides,  I'm  going  to  get 
you  a  little  something  extra  special  for  breakfast!  How 
would  you  like  two  nice  poached  eggs  on  toast?" 

Mr.  Francis  said,  with  sincere  feeling,  that  she  was 
awfully  kind  to  him. 

"Nothing  to  as  kind  as  I'd  like  to  be!"  declared  Mrs. 
Benson,  gathering  up  the  coffee-cup  with  gentleness  and 
dexterity.  "I'll  send  Harry  right  out  for  some  specially 
fresh  eggs.  It's  a  great  convenience  to  have  a  nice,  bright 
boy  like  Harry  around  the  house.  I'm  sure  you'd  like 
him  if  you  knew  him  better.  He  is  boisterous,  but  what 
can  you  expect  of  young  uns?  Well,  now,  you've  got 
time  to  have  your  breakfast — and  you're  always  so  prompt 
it  won't  hurt  anything  if  you  should  happen  to  be  a  few 
minutes  late  to  business  for  once.  I'll  have  your  eggs  all 
ready  for  you — and  another  cup  of  fresh,  specially  made 
coffee,  as  soon  as  you're  down." 

Francis's  dizziness,  nausea,  and  headache  increased  for 
a  moment  after  he  got  out  upon  his  still  shaky  legs. 

"Twombly!"  he  muttered,  as  he  reached  for  the  airing 
underwear.  "Who  can  he  be?  Divorce  suit!  I'll  be 
late  to  the  office  if  I  wait  for  those  eggs,  and  I've  never 
been  late  yet!  If  only  I  could  remember  all  they  said — 
I  fear  I've  given  a  wrong  impression  to  Mrs.  Benson — 
I  must  not  allow —  So  Twombly  was  in  the  store,  making 
up  to  that  salesgirl  the  same  day  she —  Good  Lord!  I 
need  two  heads  to  think  with,  and  I  haven't  got  more  than 

half  of  one!     What  a  fool  I've  been!     Is  it  true  that 

158 


Second    Youth 


I'm  just  beginning —  Mrs.  Benson  seemed  to  have  some 
weight  of  authority.  But  things  will  look  better  to  me, 
doubtless,  as  I  get  back  into  the  harness,"  concluded  Mr. 
Francis;  and  was  perfectly  right. 

That  evening,  the  evening  of  Wednesday,  June  14th, 
Mr.  Francis  wrote  in  the  book: 


To-day  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Miss  Winton 
must  be  embroiled,  in  some  way,  in  a  divorce  suit.  If  she 
had  not  once  spoken  to  me  of  her  late  husband  I  would 
be  more  alarmed.  At  least  there  is  a  possibility  that  she 
may  be  embroiled.  One  of  these  two  men  I  met  last 
night  may  well  have  been  an  agent  from  a  detective 
bureau;  at  least  I  suspect  as  much.  The  Twombly  man 
also  referred  to  me  in  addressing  me  once  as  a  detective. 
Perhaps  their  talk  was  not  so  meaningless  as  I,  in  my 
regrettable  state,  was  led  to  believe. 

It  was  regrettable  all  around.  McNab  hardly  spoke 
to  me  at  dinner  this  evening,  and  I  hardly  spoke  to 
him.  I  had  hoped  we  might  be  friends,  but  I  am 
afraid  we  got  a  bad  start.  We  seemed  to  avoid  each 
other,  and  that's  the  truth.  But  Mrs.  Benson  is  wrong 
about  it  being  a  beginning — or  it  may  be  a  beginning, 
but  it  is  also  an  end.  I  hereby  take  The  Pledge.  I 
mean  it.  Some  men  may  get  on  all  right  with  a  little 
of  the  demon  rum,  but  it  goes  to  my  head  and  makes  a 
fool  of  me.  I'll  never  touch  another  drop,  except  under 
quite  unusual  circumstances — a  doctor's  orders  or  some- 
thing like  that. 

This  evening  after  dinner  Mrs.  Benson  met  me  in  the 

hall,  and  I  invited  her  to  go  with  me  to  hear  Ysaye  play 

159 


Second    Youth 


the  violin  to-morrow  at  Carnegie  Hall.  I  have  long 
intended  to  invite  her  out,  and  perhaps  Ysaye  will  be 
better  than  the  Empire  vaudeville.  I  have  also  ar- 
ranged about  her  oyster  dress;  the  material  will  go  to  her 
to-morrow. 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  write  her  and  tell  her  as  much  as  I 
remember  about  the  talk  I  heard  last  night.  Her  note 
ordering  me  away  from  the  vicinity  of  her  home  ended 
everything,  of  course,  but  I  might  not  be  wrong  to  tell 
her  as  much  as  I  know.  Of  course  I  would  have  to  admit 
I  disobeyed  her  orders.  Now  that  I'm  myself  again,  I'm 
sorry  I  did;  she  has  a  right  to  ask  me  not  to  make  her 
conspicuous;  I  was  certainly  not  myself  last  night  or  I 
wouldn't  have  gone  up  there. 

To-day  I  have  thought  much  of  the  line  McNab  quoted 
at  me  last  night,  "Childe  Roland  to  the  dark  tower 
came."  McNab,  of  course,  meant  that  I  was  a  child,  but 
"Childe"  means  something  quite  different  from  the  mod- 
ern word  "child."  If  I  came  to  the  dark  tower,  I  came 
out,  anyway,  before  much  damage  had  been  done,  on  the 
whole.  McNab  seemed  to  think  I  wouldn't  have  come 
out  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him.  I  suppose  he  despises  me. 
Well,  let  him,  then.  I  have  not  any  too  much  respect  for 
a  man  of  his  advantages  who  would  get  as  unaccountable 
as  he  did. 

Bad  headache  all  day  to-day.  Tried  to  think  a  good 
deal,  but  didn't  do  much  good.  Not  even  sure  yet 
whether  I  ought  to  write  her. 

Yes,  on  the  whole,  I  will.  I  will  compose  a  note  with 
care  so  that  she  will  be  warned  if  there  is  any  reason  that 
she  should  be.  I  must  also  find  out  about  Twombly.  I 
must,  even  though  I  do  not  have  any  further  interest  in  her 
whatever.  I  wish  I  knew  how  I  could.  However,  I  will 

160 


Second    Youth 


write  her  a  note,  and  after  that  I  will  positively  dismiss 
the  whole  matter  from  my  mind.  Yes,  and  about  Twom- 
bly,  too.  What  is  it  to  me  who  Twouibly  is,  her  brother- 
in-law,  her  uncle — anything.  I  will  write  the  note,  and 
after  that  I  will  think  about  her  no  more.  I  would  not 
have  broken  my  previous  resolve  if  I  had  been  accountable, 
but  now  that  I  have  broken  it  I  will  go  a  little  further,  and 
then  there's  a  complete  end  to  that.  I  certainly  shall  never 
become  unaccountable  again. 


Until  eleven  o'clock  he  was  busy  on  the  note.  No 
diplomatic  correspondence  between  dangerously  disagree- 
ing governments  ever  received  more  serious  attention. 
The  final,  and  accepted,  draft  ran: 

MY  DEAK  Miss  WINTON, — I  am  sorry  to  say  I  broke  my  resolve 
not  to  promenade  in  your  neighborhood  again.  While  there  I 
met  two  men.  One  of  them  was,  I  think,  a  detective,  and  he 
was  watching  2067.  Another  one,  I  learn,  bore  the  name  of 
Twombly.  They  talked  about  divorce  proceedings,  plaintiffs, 
and  talks  they  had  had  with  the  hall-boy  and  colored  man  in 
the  apartment.  Of  course  this  may  not  interest  you  in  the 
least.  I  merely  send  it  on  a  chance.  I  know  you  will  not  under- 
stand it  as  intimating  that  I  do  not  realize  everything  is  past, 
positively  and  forever,  between  us.  Should  anything  I  have 
said  interest  you,  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  more  explicit  if  you  will 
write  me,  addressing  your  letter  in  care  of  buyer's  office,  Silk 
Dept.,  McDavitt's  Dept.  Store. 

Sincerely  yours, 

ROLAND  F.  FRANCIS. 

He  carried  the  letter  out  to  a  letter-box  at  once.  On 
his  return  he  was  stopped  by  Mrs.  Benson  with  a  request 
that  he  play  a  game  of  pinochle  with  her.  He  begged  off 

161 


Second    Youth 


on  the  ground  that  he  had  a  headache,  and  she  allowed 
him  to  go  up-stairs  to  bed. 

The  next  night,  toward  midnight,  Francis  wrote  in  the 
book: 


This  evening  has  been  perhaps  one  of  the  most  event- 
ful in  my  life.  I  am  engaged  to  Mrs.  Benson.  I  am 
still  so  shaken  up  I  do  not  know  how  it  occurred. 
Neither  can  I  describe  my  feelings.  They  are  mixed 
beyond  my  powers  of  analyzation.  Words  fail  me. 

I  escorted  her  to  hear  Ysaye  at  Carnegie  Hall.  The 
music  was  beautiful.  It  lifted  me  up.  At  times  I  fairly 
felt  as  if  my  soul  had  wings.  Mrs.  Benson  was  not  so 
much  interested.  I  told  her  I  hoped  she  enjoyed  it;  it 
lifted  me  up;  it  made  me  feel  like  being  a  kinder  man  to 
everybody. 

She  said,  under  her  breath:  "Let's  go  away.  I  don't 
care  for  this  high-brow  fiddling.  I  have  something  to  tell 
you." 

I  was  disappointed,  but  I  went,  because  she  seemed 
in  earnest.  On  the  way  home  she  hardly  spoke  to  me. 
I  thought  I  must  have  done  or  said  something,  and 
begged  her  to  tell  me  what  it  was  so  that  I  could 
explain,  apologize.  She  said,  "I'll  tell  you  when  we 
get  home." 

When  we  were  in  the  front  parlor  alone  she  pulled  back 
the  curtains  in  the  rear  to  be  sure  that  Harry  was  sound 
asleep,  and  then  she  said  the  boarders  had  begun  to  make 
insinuations  about  her  and  me. 

I  cannot  express  how  overcome  I  was.  She  has,  of 
course,  nothing  but  her  reputation.  She  told  me  that, 


Second    Youth 


and  I  agreed  with  her.  How  much  bitterer  than  a  ser- 
pent's tooth  is  a  slanderous  tongue. 

I  asked  her  who  had  started  it,  but  she  would  not  tell 
me  for  fear  I  would  attack  him,  which  would  make 
matters  worse.  I  asked  her  if  it  was  Whiggam,  but  she 
said  it  was  not,  and  made  me  swear  I  wouldn't  mention 
anything  about  it  to  Whiggam.  Or  to  any  one  else,  but 
especially  to  Whiggam. 

I  can't  think  that  Whiggam  would  do  a  thing  like  that. 
Nor  can  I  imagine  any  such  thing  of  anybody  else.  Before 
I  knew  it,  we  were  engaged. 

She  wept  a  great  deal,  especially  before  we  were  en- 
gaged. I  told  her  I  felt  unworthy,  but  she  said  she  liked 
me  for  my  humbleness.  I  also  admitted  that  my  desires 
had  often  strayed  to  women  high  above  me,  but  she  said, 
"Wait  till  we're  married,  and  I'll  trust  you  anywhere." 

In  many  ways  I  am  not  sorry.  Mine  has  been  a  lonely 
life,  and  many  of  the  things  she  says  about  bachelors  hit 
me.  I  may  have  been  going  to  pieces  faster  than  I  sus- 
pected. She  assured  me  that  I  was,  and  she  has  had 
many  opportunities  to  observe  such  cases.  "Just  before 
the  final  crash,"  she  told  me,  "many  of  them  will  get 
dumb-bells  and  go  to  taking  some  tonic."  I  fear  I  may 
have  been  nearer  the  brink  than  I  suspected. 

Perhaps  I  have  at  last  found  happiness  and  peace. 
She  is  a  good  woman  and  capable,  and  she  says  she  is 
really  going  to  begin  exercising  and  taking  that  new  dis- 
covery to  reduce  her  weight.  She  has  been  intending  to 
ever  since  I  kissed  her  hand  that  time  in  the  hall.  That 
was  a  fateful  kiss.  Still,  I  will  not  repine.  I  hate  a  man 
who  repines  over  spilled  milk. 

I  sometimes  wish  I  could  adore  her  more.    Everything 

is  not  precisely  as  I  imagined  love  might  be  if  it  ever  came 

163 


Second    Youth 


to  me.  But  I  should  be  happy  in  my  good  fortune.  I 
have  spent  my  life  in  dreams  of  women  whom  I  could 
never  hope  to  make  care  for  me,  and  there  is  no  better  way 
of  putting  an  end  to  that  than  getting  married.  Perhaps 
I  would  have  appreciated  it  if  she  had  agreed  to  let  me 
have  a  week  or  so  in  which  to  make  sure  of  my  mind, 
but  she  objected. 

"Duty  is  an  archangel  on  the  right  hand  of  God." 
That  is  true,  deeply  true,  and  I  shall  strive  to  do  my 
duty,  forgetting  that  other  love  to  which  I  had  lifted  my 
eyes,  but  where  I  met  with  scorn.  I  am  engaged.  There 
is  something  terrible  about  that.  It  fills  one  with  a  strong 
sense  of  duty. 

I  would  like  to  add  a  bit  of  poetry  here.  Surely  this  is 
an  occasion  that  demands  a  bit  of  poetry,  and  yet  I  can 
think  of  none  that  seems  to  suit.  Perhaps  a  selection  from 
Spenser's  "Prothalamion"  would  be  suitable,  but  I  am 
too  tired  out,  although  to-day  I  have  fortunately  felt 
much  better  than  yesterday,  to  look  up  the  poem  in  The 
Golden  Treasury.  I  will  only  say  that  I  have  received 
perhaps  one  of  the  best  gifts  life  has  to  offer — the  prospect 
of  a  wife  and  a  home. 

McNab  has  left  the  boarding-house.  He  was  dis- 
charged, he  told  Mrs.  Benson.  He  did  not  tell  me  good- 
by.  I  have  a  feeling  that  perhaps  our  joint  foolishness 
of  night  before  last  had  something  to  do  with  it.  This 
feeling  throws  a  pall  over  an  otherwise  joyful  occasion. 
Still,  McNab  is  young;  he  has  had  a  lesson,  and  he  will 
come  out  all  right.  At  least  I  hope  so.  According  to 
Mrs.  Benson,  who  is  pessimistic  about  him  since  he 
stayed  over  a  day  more  than  the  week  he  paid  for,  the  only 
thing  that  will  save  him  from  quick  destruction  is  a  wife 

to  look  after  him.    Well,  I  am  glad  that  I  shall  soon  be 

164 


Second    Youth 


beyond  the  danger  which  lurks  ever  in  the  path  of  bach- 
elors in  New  York  boarding-houses.  I  can  truthfully  say 
that  I  am  glad  of  it. 

Half  an  hour  later,  in  a  crabbed,  scratchy  hand,  a  hand 
far  removed  from  the  copper-plate  of  Mr.  Francis's  happier 
hours,  he  completed  that  day's  entry  in  the  book: 

I  will  keep  my  mind  open.  I  will  come  to  no  definite, 
absolute  decision  on  this  matter.  After  all,  a  man  has  a 
right  to  have  some  say  in  a  crisis  like  this.  Any  man 
has  a  right  to  say  something  about  whether  he  shall  be 
engaged. 

Still,  it  is  perhaps  useless  to  struggle  against  Fate, 
and  it  may  well  be  that  Mrs.  Benson  is  my  Fate.  Should 
this  prove  to  be  the  case,  I  shall,  of  course,  have  nothing 
further  to  say.  Still,  Fate  is  not  always  inflexible;  a  man 
can  bend  it  to  his  will  if  he  strives  hard  enough.  Never- 
theless, I  fancy  that  would  be  a  difficult  thing  to  do  with 
Mrs.  Benson.  She  has  a  great  deal  of  iron  in  her  dis- 
position. 


XI 


MR.    FRANCIS   EXPERIENCES   SOME   UPS   AND   DOWNS   AS    A 
FIANCE — INCLUDING  A  SIEGE 

AFTER  he  had  gulped  his  breakfast  the  next  morning, 
being  pressed  for  time  because  of  a  nearly  sleepless 
night,  Mr.  Francis  was  confronted  by  Mrs.  Benson  in  the 
gloom  of  the  basement  hall. 

"Tell  me  good-by!"  she  commanded,  with  cheeriness, 
presenting  her  cheek.  "Always,  after  this,  you  must  tell 
me  good-by  before  you  go  to  business!" 

Francis  printed  a  swift,  extremely  chaste  kiss  on  the 
cheek,  and  fled  up  the  stairs.  He  was  afraid  that  some 
one  might  see  him.  As  for  the  kiss  itself,  that  was  not 
as  unpalatable  as  he  had  expected.  It  gave  him  a  kind  of 
thrill  that  was  at  once  heady  and  sobering. 

He  had  two  distinct  groups  of  feelings,  he  decided, 
as  he  hurried  up-town  to  business,  about  this  engagement 
of  his. 

On  one  side  there  was  something  at  once  heady  and 
sobering  about  it.  By  being  engaged  he  felt  himself  more 
settled,  more  confirmed  in  a  place  in  the  world,  less  likely 
to  be  blown  away  into  nothing.  That  feeling  was  good 
for  him.  As  a  bachelor  he  had  suffered  from  the  common 
bachelor's  complaint  of  feeling  himself,  as  he  was,  a  little 
outside  of  the  main  stream  of  life,  the  mighty  current 
that  began  somewhere  in  the  mists  of  past  ages  and  would 

1GG 


Second    Y outh 


flow  into  immeasurable  ages  after  he  was  gone.  It  is 
hard  for  a  man  to  feel  himself  a  part  of  this  current  in 
spirit  without  throwing  his  body  into  it  also  by  marriage; 
and  no  member  of  the  gregarious  species,  man,  can 
thrive  without  feeling  himself  at  least  spiritually  a  part 
of  the  main  current. 

On  the  other  side,  the  plain  materialism  of  his  engage- 
ment disgusted  him.  He  had  lived  for  his  dreams;  his 
spirit-romances  had  been  the  deepest  and  truest  current 
of  his  life  for  so  long  that  such  a  reality  as  his  engagement 
to  Mrs.  Benson  hurt  him  through  and  through. 

Doubtless  any  reality  in  the  matter  of  romance  would 
have  hurt  him.  He  had  become  such  a  perfect  idealist 
that  the  practical  details  of  a  marriage  with  the  lady  of 
his  heart,  even,  would  have  troubled  him  a  good  deal. 
The  practical  details  of  romantic  matters,  to  be  acceptable 
to  him,  needed  all  the  flavoring  of  idealism  that  an 
imaginative  girl  demands  with  her  first  love  affair.  He 
could  not  but  cringe  before  the  material  side  of  his  ap- 
proaching marriage  with  Mrs.  Benson.  When  he  yearned 
for  beauty  beyond  that  of  stars  on  a  quiet  sea  he  was 
handed  the  stone  of  a  snatched  breakfast,  followed  by  the 
vision  of  a  matronly,  check-aproned,  tousle-haired  board- 
ing-house keeper  waylaying  him  in  the  basement  hall. 
Why  had  he  kissed  her?  How  could  he  have  felt  that  it 
was  anything  but  a  sacrilege? 

Until  eleven  o'clock  he  was  busy  in  the  receiving  and 
stock  rooms,  frantically  busy,  in  an  effort  to  drive  the 
whole  matter  from  his  mind.  When  there  was  nothing 
more  to  be  done  there  he  strolled  through  his  own  de- 
partment. In  the  presence  of  the  silks  he  felt  better; 
he  walked  among  them,  fingering  a  gleaming  bit  of  white 
habutai  there,  stroking  a  fold  of  black  pongee,  letting  his 


Second    Youth 


fingers  and  eyes  gather  the  quiet  richness  of  Tonkin- 
striped  Shantung,  of  black  satin  duchesse,  of  wide,  soft- 
toned  crepe  de  chine — calling  them  all  by  name  under 
his  breath,  loving  them,  filling  himself  with  their  beauty 
as  with  an  antidote.  They  helped  principally  with  his 
emotions;  they  were  powerless  to  stop  the  flood  of  his 
uncomfortable  thoughts  and  ideas.  These  he  tried  to 
dam  by  thinking  of  other  things  not  so  uncomfortable. 

There  was  a  possibility,  he  thought,  that  Miss  Winton 
might  answer  his  note;  he  suppressed  the  idea  on  the 
ground  that  it  was  not  suitable  for  an  engaged  man.  Its 
place  was  taken  by  a  wickeder  one:  suppose  he  had  been 
going  to  marry  some  one  else — Helen  Remmick,  perhaps? 
Helen  Remmick  was  beautiful,  dainty,  delicate,  at  least. 
With  a  shock  he  remembered  that  he  had  been  so  busy 
that  he  had  never  made  his  dinner  call  on  the  Remmicks. 
Was  it  etiquette  for  an  engaged  man  to  make  dinner  calls? 

He  would  have  to  tell  Mr.  Remmick  of  his  engagement, 
perhaps.  He  put  that  idea  quickly  behind  him.  It  was 
too  horrible.  He  had  a  feeling  that  Mr.  Remmick  might 
not  like  to  hear  that  he  was  going  to  marry  a  boarding- 
house  keeper.  He  could  imagine  that  Mr.  Remmick 
might  look  shocked  to  hear  that. 

Or  perhaps  he  might  have  married  the  girl  in  the 
public  library  branch  who  had  shown  an  interest  in  him. 
He  thought  of  her  dark,  intelligent  face  and  eyes.  He 
had  never  cared  for  brunette  types,  but  she  was  full  of 
intellectual  subjects,  something  to  talk  about  in  the 
evenings.  Rose  Baumann  was  her  name.  Rose  was  a 
good  name.  He  wondered  what  Mrs.  Benson's  first  name 
was.  He  feared  it  might  not  be  as  pretty  as  Rose  or 
Helen. 

"Helen — Helen  Remmick,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  and 

168 


Second    Youth 


had  a  sudden  vision  of  her:  her  clear,  pink-and-white 
complexion,  her  wistful,  big,  blue  eyes,  her  long,  drooping 
eyelashes,  her  straight  profile  broken  by  her  little  curved 
nose,  the  whole  so  sensitive,  so  fine  and  clear-cut — and  so 
much  like  Miss  Winton's. 

Miss  Winton — he  always  came  back  to  her.  She  was  no 
proper  person  for  an  engaged  man  to  think  about.  He 
determined  to  think  about  Mrs.  Benson.  To  a  certain 
extent  he  succeeded.  After  all,  he  told  himself,  if  she 
took  plenty  of  exercise  and  that  new  discovery  and  was 
more  careful  about  her  hands,  complexion,  and  hair,  she 
might  improve. 

Thoughts  along  that  line,  however,  made  him  melan- 
choly. He  needed  beauty  as  a  blossoming  tree  needs  rain 
and  sunshine,  and  he  sickened  under  the  cold,  gray  sensa- 
tions that  the  thought  of  Mrs.  Benson  evoked. 

His  mind  fell  into  a  sort  of  dull  emptiness,  a  resignation 
to  the  thing  that  had  to  be.  Gone  were  his  shimmering 
dreams,  his  vistas  of  poetic  reverie.  He  occupied  his 
time  in  giving  needless  directions  to  clerks,  in  verifying 
price-tags  that  had  already  been  verified,  in  picking  at 
displays  that  he  had  not  the  heart  to  make  any  real 
changes  in.  He  was  thoroughly  melancholy  and  business- 
like and  stern-faced  and  miserable. 

His  evenings  at  the  boarding-house  were  even  more  un- 
comfortable than  his  days  at  the  store.  Mrs.  Benson  had 
not  permitted  twelve  hours  to  pass  before  announcing  the 
engagement;  at  meals  Mr.  Francis  now  occupied  the  place 
of  honor  at  her  right  hand.  Even  though  Whiggam  sur- 
prised him  by  congratulating  him  with  apparent  sincerity, 
the  theatrical  couple  in  the  back  parlor  offered  box- 
passes  to  the  Empire  in  honor  of  the  event,  and  the  four 
or  five  melancholy  bachelor  boarders  took  absolutely  no 

12  169 


Second    Youth 


notice  of  the  change,  he  suffered  so  intensely  that  he  could 
hardly  eat.  The  sordid  unimportance,  the  sordid  impor- 
tance, the  sordid  seriousness,  the  sordid  jocularity  of  it  all, 
serrated  his  soul.  Idealist  that  he  was,  his  sense  of  humor 
was  not  robust,  and  remarks  such  as  Whiggam's  well- 
meant,  "Can't  you  just  imagine  Mr.  Francis  walking  the 
floor  with  a  bundle  of  colicky  yell  in  his  arms?"  sent  his 
heart  up  into  his  epiglottis,  down  into  his  shoes,  and  back 
up  into  his  epiglottis  again,  in  three  agonizing  leaps. 

On  one  point  he  was  trying  to  be  firm — he  would  not  let 
Mrs.  Benson  read  the  book. 

She  found  it  on  the  second  evening  of  their  pre-nuptial 
bliss  in  the  front  parlor  and  triumphantly  drew  it  forth. 
Desperately  Mr.  Francis  reclaimed  his  property,  fran- 
tically he  argued  that  there  were  some  things  that  were 
sacred  to  him,  that  there  were  some  things  they  wouldn't 
have  to  share  in  common. 

No  doctrine  could  have  been  more  repugnant  to  Mrs. 
Benson;  none  could  have  so  solidified  her  determination 
to  read  that  Personal  Journal  from  cover  to  cover.  There 
was  iron  in  her  disposition,  plenty  of  it.  Under  her  soft- 
ness and  motherliness  Mr.  Francis  soon  discovered  that 
she  was  a  determined,  invincible  woman.  She  simply 
refused  to  argue.  She  knew  she  was  right,  and  Francis 
must  do  as  she  told  him;  by  so  doing  he  would  come,  in 
due  time,  to  see  that  she  had  been  perfectly  right  all  along. 

She  told  him  that  she  intended  tx.  read  the  book.  She 
told  him  further  that  she  intended  him  to  offer  it  to  her 
with  the  very  hand  that  had  so  rudely  snatched  it  away. 
He  said  he  was  sure,  he  was  quite  sure,  he  could  never  do 
that.  She  merely  smiled,  with  a  queer,  devastating  com- 
pression of  her  broad  mouth. 

The  issues  were  pitched  between  them,  the  armies 

170 


Second    Youth 


drawn  up,  the  trumpets  blown;  and,  struggle  as  he  would, 
Francis  was  forced  to  a  presentiment  that  he  was  doomed 
to  the  woes  of  the  vanquished.  She  would  read  the  book, 
she  would  despise  it  because  of  its  sentimentality,  she 
would  condemn  it  because  of  its  wicked  references  to  other 
women,  and  she  would  burn  it  because  Mr.  Francis  now 
belonged  to  her  alone. 

Realizing  this  almost  certain  outcome,  he  vacillated 
between  the  wisdom  of  burning  the  book  himself  and  the 
treachery  of  hiding  it  and  telling  her  that  he  had  burned  it. 
In  the  mean  time  he  kept  his  coat  buttoned  while  he  was 
in  her  presence,  and  his  door  locked  at  night.  He  could 
not  leave  the  book  at  his  office;  he  needed  to  make  an 
entry  every  night,  according  to  custom,  or  he  might  not 
have  been  able  to  sleep.  He  could  not  conceal  it  in  his 
room;  Mrs.  Benson's  eyes  and  pass-keys  were  all-reveal- 
ing. At  night  he  turned  his  key  sidewise  in  the  keyhole 
in  such  a  position  that  no  pass-key  could  be  inserted  from 
the  hall.  Otherwise  he  feared  that  Mrs.  Benson  might 
walk  in  upon  him,  indelicately  disregarding  the  fact  that 
he  might  be  in  bed,  and  abstract  the  bone  of  contention 
from  his  coat  pocket. 

On  Thursday,  June  27th,  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
he  wrote  in  the  book: 

I  am  a  miserable  sinner.  I  adore  Miss  Winton  still. 
All  day  in  the  store  I  have  been  thinking  about  her. 
The  blueness  of  her  eyes  is  like  still  waters.  Her  hair 
is  soft  as  silk  in  the  skein.  Her  depth  and  quietness 
restoreth  my  soul.  Yes,  though  I  walked  through  the 

Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  I  would  love  her.    I  am 

171 


Second    Youth 


a  vile  man.  And  I  am  a  liar;  I  must  admit  it  with  sack- 
cloth and  ashes.  I  told  Mrs.  Benson  I  had  been  kept  at 
the  store,  while  in  truth  I  was  walking  through  Central 
Park.  Through  the  night,  under  the  stars.  Full  of  the 
thought  of  her.  Full  of  poetry  and  aspirations.  Full  of 
joy  and  wonder  and  exceeding  glory  and  brightness. 

It  was  against  my  will  that  I  began  thinking  of  her  so 
deeply;  it  seemed  to  come  over  me  in  spite  of  myself,  I 
know  not  why.  For  the  last  few  days  I  have  been  keeping 
every  thought  of  her  out  of  my  mind,  remembering  my 
duty  to  Mrs.  Benson.  But  suddenly  to-day  the  thought 
of  her  burst  out;  it  may  have  burst  out  more  strongly 
because  I  had  suppressed  it,  because  I  was  so  starved  and 
hungry  to  think  about  her,  having  been  used  to  think 
more  about  her  than  about  anything  else  for  such  a  long 
time. 

When  I  tried  not  to  think  of  her  to-day  it  was  like  trying 
to  dam  a  river  that  only  kept  rising  and  overflowing. 
Finally  I  let  go  everything.  "Come,  then — come, 
thoughts  of  her !"  I  said.  "  I'll  think  of  her  if  I  die  for  it !" 

So  I  thought  of  her  as  if  I  had  been  starved  for  a  long 
time,  and  as  I  thought  my  miseries  fell  from  me.  I  re- 
membered her  vividly.  I  could  repeat  many  of  the  things 
she  said.  Perhaps  she  is  not  an  innocent,  perfectly — 

Mr.  Francis  arose  and  took  a  turn  about  the  room.  He 
had  found  a  problem  that  demanded  a  nuance  of  expres- 
sion, a  careful  shading  of  words. 

He  returned  to  his  table,  and  continued: 

• — unacquainted  with  the  facts  of  life  and  experience  sort 
of  woman.  But  I  know  that  she  is  not  in  any  way  bad. 

172 


Second    Youth 


And  yet  if  she  were  I  would  still  love  her;  at  least  I  think 
I  would.  Perhaps  the  more  worms  the  more  silk.  And 
yet  it  horrifies  me  to  think  of  this.  It  is  a  problem  beyond 
me,  and  yet  I  shall  strive  to  understand  it.  Herbert 
Spencer  himself  had  no  university  education,  and  neither 
did  one  of  the  greatest  of  English  Greek  scholars — I  forget 
his  name. 

I  have  neglected  my  reading  lately,  but  perhaps  after  I 
am  married  and  settled  down  I  shall  do  better  along  this 
line.  If  I  ever  do  get  married  and  settled  down.  At  any 
rate,  I  must  get  more  settled  down.  I  must  have  lost 
ten  Ibs.  in  the  last  few  weeks,  and  when  I  looked  at  my 
face  in  the  mirror  a  little  while  ago  it  looked  like  a  ghost's. 
I  have  been  having  an  unsettled  existence  recently,  and 
that  is  the  truth. 

I  could  not  greet  Mrs.  Benson  as  usual  when  I  returned 
after  my  walk  this  evening.  I  had  hoped  that  she  would 
have  retired;  it  was  nearly  midnight  when  I  unlocked  the 
door.  But,  in  spite  of  my  care  not  to  make  a  noise,  she 
heard  me.  She  was  waiting  up. 

She  insisted  that  I  greet  her  as  usual.  I  said,  "I'm 
sorry  you  waited  up,  Mrs.  Benson,  I've  been  detained  at 
the  store." 

It  was  an  untruth,  and,  as  is  too  often  the  way  with 
untruths,  it  was  not  convincing. 

"Detained  at  the  store  till  midnight — that's  a  likely 
story !  I'll  bet  you've  been  out  prowling  the  streets  again 
like  a  stray  tom-cat!"  she  said.  Her  intuition  surprised 
me  so  that  I  could,  for  a  moment,  make  no  reply. 

"  But  all  that  will  come  to  an  end  next  week,"  she  said. 
Then  she  told  me  she  had  decided  that,  in  order  to  save 
me  from  a  complete  breakdown,  we  would  be  married  a 

week  from  Saturday. 

173 


Second    Youth 


I  was  surprised.  I  had  never  thought  just  when  we 
were  going  to  be  married.  It  had  always  seemed  a  long 
way  off  to  me.  I  asked  her  if  she  was  sure  we  could  com- 
plete arrangements  in  that  time. 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  she  replied.  "You've  been  looking 
like  a  wreck  lately.  The  first  thing  you  know  you'll  be 
getting  fired  down  at  the  store." 

The  truth  of  this  startled  me.  I  have,  perhaps,  been 
neglecting  my  work  somewhat  of  recent  date;  I  have  not 
had  the  heart  for  it  as  formerly.  Mr.  Remmick,  I  re- 
membered, has  seemed  somewhat  cold  to  me,  also. 

"  We'll  have  a  good  long  talk  to-morrow  evening,  when 
I  hope  you  will  not  be  detained  at  the  store,"  she  said, 
sarcastically;  and  then  she  insisted  that  I  greet  her  as 
usual. 

I  said  I  had  a  sore  throat,  I  feared,  and  might  infect 
her.  I  had  not  expected  to  tell  this  lie,  but  it  slipped  out, 
prepared  for,  I  presume,  by  the  first  one  I  had  told. 

Oh,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave 
When  first  we  practise  to  deceive. 

She  believed  it,  however:  I  have  had  a  cough  of  late 
days,  and  I  coughed  loudly  to  show  her  that  I  had  one 
then.  She  said  she  would  get  me  a  dose  of  castor-oil, 
but  I  was  firm;  I  said  I  would  get  along  all  right  if  I  were 
merely  allowed  to  go  at  once  to  sleep. 

She  came  up  with  a  mustard  plaster  as  I  was  retiring. 
Luckily  my  door  was  locked.  I  told  her  I  was  retiring. 

"I'm  going  to  put  this  mustard  plaster  on  you  and 
that's  the  end  of  it,"  she  said.  "Put  on  your  dressing- 
gown  and  let  me  in." 

I  did  not  feel  like  doing  this;  my  cough  was  not  nearly 

174 


Second    Youth 


as  bad  as  I  had  made  it  appear,  anyway.  She  insisted 
that  I  let  her  in  at  once;  were  we  not  engaged,  practically 
the  same  as  married?  But  I  told  her  that  I  could  not 
feel  the  same  as  she  did  about  that;  engaged  people 
weren't  really  married. 

"I  won't  argue — I've  made  this  mustard  plaster  for 
you,  and  I  insist  that  you've  got  to  let  me  put  it  on  you !" 
she  said,  loudly. 

It  was  terrible.  Whiggam  was  laughing  in  his  room 
until  I  thought  he  would  shake  the  house  down.  Every- 
body in  the  house  must  have  heard  her.  I  thought  that 
silence  would  be  the  best  policy.  I  said  nothing  more, 
but  she  did. 

Finally  she  said  I  was  at  least  to  open  the  door  wide 
enough  to  take  in  the  mustard  plaster,  but  I  feared  if  I 
opened  it  a  crack  she  would  put  her  foot  in  it  and  insist 
on  coming  in.  I  was  distracted  by  this  time.  I  told  her 
I  would  not  unlock  the  door,  she  would  have  to  break 
it  down  if  she  got  in,  and  that  was  the  truth.  I  was 
nervous.  I  raised  my  voice,  careless  of  who  might  hear. 

"  Stand  your  ground,  old  man !"  Whiggam  called  to  me, 
hammering  on  the  wall  between  our  rooms.  He  seemed 
to  be  almost  unaccountable  with  excitement,  and  perhaps 
with  other  things.  He  also  yelled:  "It's  an  outrage! 
No  respectable  man  is  safe  in  this  house!  Defend  your 
virtue!  The  mustard  plaster's  a  put-up  job  to  get  at 
you!  If  she  gets  in  I'll  call  the  police!  Helpless  inno- 
cence sha'n't  be  betrayed  while  Whiggie's  strong  right 
arm  can  intervene!"  and  other  things  that  proved  him 
unaccountable.  Mrs.  Benson  told  him  to  shut  up,  but  he 
wouldn't.  They  had  quite  an  argument,  very  acrimoni- 
ous, which  I  will  not  repeat. 

Finally  she  went  away. 

175 


Second    Youth 


I  am  overcome.  I  feel  like  a  nervous  wreck.  I  can 
hardly  write.  It  is  almost  more  than  I  can  stand. 

And  yet  it  is  quite  true  that  she  has  grounds  for  irrita- 
tion against  me.  I  did  not  greet  her  this  evening  as  usual, 
and  a  woman  has  a  right  to  get  a  mustard  plaster  to  relieve 
the  sore  throat  of  the  man  she's  engaged  to.  She  has 
good  reason  to  be  hurt  in  her  finer  feelings.  I  do  not  un- 
derstand myself  recently.  I  seem  debased.  Two  lies 
this  evening.  Before  I  went  out  with  McNab  and  fell 
before  several  mixed  drinks  I  had  felt  I  could  look  every 
one  in  the  face.  That  fall  from  grace  started  everything. 
I  am  miserable  in  body  and  mind,  my  head  aches,  I  ought 
to  be  in  bed,  and  yet  I  know  I  could  not  sleep  even  if  I 
were.  I  might  as  well  sit  up  till  morning,  for  all  the  good 
going  to  bed  will  do  me. 

My  duty  toward  Mrs.  Benson  is  plain.  I  should  marry 
her  a  week  from  Saturday.  Shall  I  be  a  hypocrite  and  base 
deceiver?  I  am  in  a  terrible  dilemma.  If  I  followed  my 
natural  instincts  I  would  run  away  from  this  place  and 
never  set  foot  in  it  again.  But  she  would  have  no  dif- 
ficulty in  finding  me  because  of  my  attachment  to  McDav- 
itt's.  It  is  a  serious  situation.  Whatever  I  do  I  shall 
be  miserable,  I  shall  be  doing  absolutely  wrong,  and  that 
is  the  worst  situation  a  human  being  can  get  himself  into. 

At  least  I  shall  rise  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  and 
leave  the  house  before  any  one  is  up.  I  shall  take  my 
meals  henceforth  outside;  I  cannot  face  the  boarders  nor 
Whiggam  after  being  talked  to  as  Mrs.  Benson  talked  to 
me  this  evening. 

By  leaving  the  house  at  five  o'clock  I  shall  escape  Mrs. 
Benson  and  trouble  in  the  morning,  and  I  can  take  my 
dinner  outside.  But  will  she  not  meet  me  with  further 
reason  for  being  hurt  when  I  return  to  my  roorn  for  the 


Second    Youth 


night?  I  shall  try  to  think  about  what  I  ought  to  do 
after  I  get  away  in  the  morning.  As  long  as  I  am  here 
with  that  menace  in  the  front  parlor  my  head  refuses 
to  work. 

I  shall  set  my  alarm  for  four-thirty  and  put  it  under  my 
pillow  so  I  can  stifle  it  as  soon  as  it  begins  to  ring.  If  Mrs. 
Benson  heard  it  I  fear  I  might  be  obliged  to  meet  her  in 
the  lower  hall,  which  I  do  not  care  to  do  for  the  present. 
I  never  suspected  that  I  should  ever  feel  a  deadly  fear  of 
Mrs.  Benson.  I  find  one  does  not  get  to  know  persons 
well  in  the  casual  associations  of  a  boarding-house.  After 
meeting  Mrs.  Benson  almost  daily  for  seven  years  I  still 
had  a  very  inadequate  idea  of  her  personality.  I  was, 
and  am  still,  amazed. 

And  yet  I  admit  I  gave  her  provocation.  She  is  a  good 
and  upright  woman  in  spite  of  some  of  the  things  she  said 
to  me,  and  especially  to  Whiggam,  which  I  shall  not  repeat 
here  because  she  was  not  entirely  in  control  of  her  feelings. 


XII 


PRAGMATISM   FROM   SOME   OTHER   THINGS 

FRANCIS  tiptoed  down  the  old  brownstone- front 
steps,  glanced  once  at  the  blank  windows  of  the 
basement  dining-room,  and  hurriedly  made  off  in  the 
direction  of  Sixth  Avenue.  His  heels  made  an  astonish- 
ing clatter  in  the  silent  side-street;  he  changed  his  quick- 
step to  a  shuffle  without  reducing  his  speed.  When  the 
avenue's  elevated  railway  structure  separated  him  from 
Mrs.  Benson's  boarding-house  he  heaved  a  gentle  sigh, 
pushed  his  hat  back  from  his  moist  brow,  and  began  to 
stroll  contemplatively  toward  Fifth  Avenue. 

It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  a  cloudless  mid- 
summer day.  The  sun  had  not  yet  lifted  above  the  build- 
ings to  eastward,  but  the  whole  vast  dome  of  sky  above 
him  was  filled  with  luminousness,  with  an  infinite  vibra- 
tion and  glory  of  champagne-colored  light. 

A  light,  warm,  leaf-scented  breeze  strayed  from  some- 
where out  of  the  vastness  overhead  and  wandered  down 
the  street;  a  maple- tree  growing  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
sidewalk  rustled  in  the  wash  of  air.  The  asphalt  was  cool 
and  shiny,  and  clean  from  sweeping  and  watering  during 
the  night.  A  milk-wagon  passed,  the  sound  of  its  wheels 

and  horses'  hoofs  muffled  by  the  warmth-softened  pave- 

178 


Second    Youth 


ment.  A  few  early  workers  strolled  along  the  opposite 
sidewalk. 

A  pleasant  thrill  of  wakefulness,  of  response  to  the 
morning's  awakening  in  quiet  and  cleanliness,  permeated 
Francis  as  he  walked. 

"New  York's  not  so  bad  in  summer,"  he  remarked  to 
himself,  swinging  his  friendly  cane,  sniffing  the  air,  glanc- 
ing about  at  the  cubical  buildings.  "In  fact,  at  times 
there  seems  something  rather  good  and  decent  and — and — 
impressive  about  it." 

He  turned  into  Fifth  Avenue  and  walked  northward. 
The  wide  cement  sidewalks  were  clean,  the  asphalt  was 
clean,  and  gangs  of  men  in  white  clothes,  white  helmets, 
and  glistening  black  rubber  boots  were  busy  at  intervals 
of  every  second  or  third  block  wetting  down  the  pavement. 

"There  is  something  refreshing  about  watered  asphalt; 
it  is,  perhaps,  an  improvement  on  nature,"  said  Francis. 

The  swishing  of  the  big  streams  of  water  was  a  cool 
sound  in  the  early  morning  quiet,  and  cooling  little 
brooks  rippled  and  rushed  along  the  gutters.  A  huge 
gray-and-silver  automobile  drifted  by  with  a  barely  per- 
ceptible whirring  of  wheels  and  motor.  Occasionally, 
where  side-streets  cut  across  the  broad  Avenue,  patches 
of  orange-colored  sunlight  decorated  the  walk  and  .the 
gray  stone  sides  of  buildings. 

"How  different  everything  looks  and  smells,"  cogitated 
Francis,  "from  that  night  when  McNab  and  I  were  out 
together!  Everything  was  against  us  that  night.  We 
might  have  gotten  on  better  if  we'd  come  out  together 
on  a  morning  like  this.  Now  that  shade  of  the  orange 
sunlight — gold  and  red — softened,  perhaps,  by  a  sort  of 
clearness.  It  might  well  be  the  color  of  good  resolutions.'* 

He  passed  the  bench  in  Madison  Square  Park  where  he 

179 


Second    Youth 


had  spent  most  of  one  eventful  night.  The  derelicts  were 
few;  they  had  already  scattered  in  search  of  morning 
refreshment.  The  well-kept  grass  and  trees  attracted 
him. 

"That  shade  of  green — the  color  of  grass  and  trees — 
is  perfectly  healthy,  one  of  the  healthiest  of  all  colors," 
he  commented.  "The  green  chosen  for  police  lights  is 
another  shade,  more  like  the  scum  on  sewer  water.  It  is 
strange  that  the  healthiest,  and  the  most  unhealthy,  of 
colors  should  be  so  closely  allied.  That  is  a  problem." 

It  was  a  problem  to  which  he  gave  only  passing  consider- 
ation. The  real  problem  for  him  to  consider,  he  told  him- 
self, was  what  he  was  going  to  do  about  Mrs.  Benson. 
That  was  problem  enough  for  him. 

The  high,  massy  buildings  of  Fifth  Avenue  above 
Twenty-sixth  Street  closed  him  in.  He  looked  up  into 
the  azure  panel  of  sky  that  bent  down  to  the  horizon 
before  him  and  lazily  tried  to  put  his  mind  on  Mrs. 
Benson.  She  seemed  a  long  way  off,  much  farther  than 
the  few  blocks  he  had  put  between  them.  And  yet  the 
more  he  thought  of  her  the  nearer  she  came. 

He  walked  slowly  onward,  swinging  his  cane  under  the 
brightening  field  of  daffodil  light,  and,  without  giving  any 
real  thought  to  his  problem,  without  producing  one 
coherent  idea  about  it,  a  great  feeling  of  melancholy  rose 
in  him,  rose,  spread,  widened  darkly,  with  the  slow  per- 
sistence of  a  flood-tide.  He  ached  all  over  with  the  cold 
heaviness  of  it. 

He  did  not  think  about  Mrs.  Benson;  he  felt  about  her, 
and  the  feeling  threatened  to  strangle  him.  He  looked 
up  at  the  clean,  gleaming  sky,  he  breathed  the  fresh  air 
of  morning,  and  the  tangle  of  troubles  in  the  backward  of 
his  consciousness,  by  some  unconscious  comparison,  made 

180 


Second    Youth 


him  want  to  spew  them  forth,  them  and  everything  in 
life  connected  with  them,  as  if  they  had  been  some  poison 
that  he  had  allowed  to  be  forced  down  his  throat. 

Mrs.  Benson  could  not  be  thought  of,  felt  about,  in 
terms  of  the  sunshine;  the  idea  of  her  was  deadly  to  his 
enjoyment  of  the  morning's  freshness  and  calm  and  quiet 
holiness.  He  felt  that  a  true  love  would  have  mingled 
with,  would  have  beautified  and  been  beautified  by,  all 
the  morning  wonder  that  stretched  out  appeals  of  beauty 
to  his  soul. 

"I'll  end  it!  Dishonor  myself  as  I  may,  I'll  end  it!" 
he  cried  in  his  throat.  "No  love  at  all  is  better!  It  is 
infinitely  better  for  me  to  go  on  without  love  than  to 
have  such  a  love  as  this!"  He  said,  slowly  and  in  cold 
blood,  "Even  the  love  of  a  girl  like  the  girl  in  the  taupe 
charmeuse  is  better  than  this  love!" 

But  he  knew  that  that  love  also  was  vile,  even  if  more 
sincere,  and  he  threw  them  from  him  together.  He  would 
have  no  more  of  either  of  them.  At  any  rate,  he  had  an 
ideal:  he  would  remain  a  bachelor  and  cherish  his  ideal 
in  his  heart. 

Adelaide  Winton — she  rhymed  with  the  sunshine!  He 
could  think  of  her  in  terms  of  the  luminousness  that  filled 
all  space,  in  terms  of  winds  all  soft  sweetness  and  purity, 
in  terms  of  leaves  and  grass  and  flowers  and  fountains 
and  cool,  gleaming  asphalt  and  orange-colored  sun- 
patches  on  gray  stone,  and  all  the  other  wonders  that  go 
to  make  up  a  good  Manhattan  morning. 

"I  shall  be  lonely,  but  I  shall  have  the  thought  of  her, 
and  I  can  stand  it,"  he  told  himself.  "I'll  leave  Mrs. 
Benson's — I'll  go  somewhere  else.  There  are  plenty  of 
boarding-houses  in  New  York.  I  shall  be  free!" 

He  bethought  himself  of  his  new  store  of  psychology. 

181 


Second    Youth 


"And  I  shall  have  her,  have  the  idea  of  her,  the  idea 
which  is  often  more  perfect  than  the  substance!"  he  said. 
"The  idea  is  more  perfect  than  physical  sensations.  If 
I  have  a  more  complete  idea  of  her  than  anybody  else,  I 
shall  always  have  more  of  her  than  anybody  else!" 

It  was  a  sublime  idea. 

"As  with  a  beautiful  book,"  said  Francis,  thrilled  to  the 
marrow  by  the  depths  of  opening  wonder  in  his  intellect. 
He  lifted  his  face  toward  the  fields  of  daffodil  light  bright- 
ening over  his  head,  and  soared.  "A  beautiful  book  be- 
longs most  to  the  man  who  can  appreciate  what's  inside 
— yes,  and  outside,  too.  A  beautiful  book  in  a  beautiful 
binding!  It  belongs  to  the  man  who  can  get  the  most  of 
it  into  his  soul — far  more  than  it  belongs  to  the  library, 
or  the  man,  who  merely  owns  it !" 

The  idea  fitted  his  spirit  with  sweeping  wings.  Since  he 
really  appreciated  her,  since  he  loved  her  more  deeply 
and  wisely  than  any  one  else  possibly  could — why,  in 
very  truth  and  fact,  she  was  his!  She  was  his! 

With  sudden  rapture,  with  the  ecstatic  thrills  of  a  freed 
eagle  in  the  regained  magnificence  of  wings,  he  shot  into 
the  infinite  blue-golden  depths  of  air,  of  thin,  impalpable 
air.  On  the  wind  of  a  pure  idea  he  soared  into  a  realm  of 
pure  emotion.  He  forgot  his  upbearing  idea,  as  the  eagle 
might  forget  both  wings  and  upbearing  wind;  he  felt  no 
limitations;  he  was  one  with  the  luminous  infinity  over 
his  head;  he  was  all  fire  and  spirit  and  immaterial  devo- 
tion; he  was  all  idealism,  as  thin  and  unhuman  as  the 
ether  that  fills  space;  as  a  knight  who  has  received  the 
accolade  and  goes  forth  to  seek  the  Holy  Grail,  he  was  free 
from  mortal  taint. 

He  thought  no  more  about  anything.  With  eyes  that 
only  vaguely  saw,  with  ears  that  only  vaguely  heard,  with 

182 


Second    Youth 


feet  that  only  vaguely  felt  the  pavement,  he  gave  himself 
up  to  cosmic  rapture,  that  heady  wine  on  the  strength  of 
which  much  ancient  and  modern  saintliness,  and  some 
unsaintliness,  is  founded. 

Saint-Gaudens's  gilded  statue  of  General  Sherman 
gleamed  before  him;  he  passed  it  with  a  side  glance  of 
admiration  and  entered  the  green-and-golden  morning 
freshness  of  the  Park.  Through  winding  Park  byways  he 
walked,  full  of  his  strange,  new  feeling  of  freedom  and  up- 
liftedness.  The  Park  was  beautiful  and  fresh  and  cool 
and  redolent  of  spicy  things  that  delighted  him.  In  spite 
of  these  pleasant  things,  and  of  his  uplif  tedness  of  heart, 
he  began  to  feel  tired.  He  noticed,  also,  that  his  feet 
were  sweaty  and  sore.  Finally,  he  was  becoming  faint 
with  hunger.  Material  matters  had  reasserted  their 
claim  on  him. 

By  following  the  directions  on  a  yellow-and-black  sign- 
board he  came  out  on  Eighth  Avenue;  limping  a  little, 
he  hurried  across  to  Broadway,  found  a  dairy  lunch,  and 
ordered  two  fried  eggs,  turned  over,  a  cup  of  coffee,  and 
a  piece  of  blueberry  pie  a  la  mode. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  by  the  time  these  enjoyable  proper- 
ties were  bestowed.  He  went  out  on  to  Broadway,  and 
surmised  that  the  day  was  beginning  to  warm  up;  also 
that  a  ride  to  his  day's  work  on  a  Riverside  Drive  motor- 
bus  would  be  a  good  investment  in  view  of  the  state  of  his 
feet. 

Most  of  his  upliftedness  had  vanished  by  the  time  he 
reached  Fifth  Avenue  and  Thirty-third  Street,  but  he 
was  comfortable  in  a  quiet  confidence  that  he  had  settled 
the  Benson  problem.  In  the  course  of  the  ride  down- 
town he  had  even  settled  most  of  the  details  of  its  settle- 
ment. 

183 


Second    Youth 


He  would  write  Mrs.  Benson  a  letter,  explaining  that  he 
had  decided  their  romance  was  a  mistake.  He  would 
apologize  in  dust  and  ashes,  but  he  would  tell  her  that  he 
had  decided  that  it  simply  could  not  be.  He  would  send 
an  expressman  for  his  things,  and  he  would  inclose  a 
liberal  amount  of  money  to  pay  her  for  gathering  up  his 
things,  as  well  as  for  his  failure  to  give  notice.  For  that 
night,  he  would  have  to  go  to  a  hotel;  probably  he 
couldn't  find  a  boarding-house  until  late  that  evening,  too 
late  to  get  an  expressman  to  go  after  his  things.  He 
would  have  to  get  a  new  night-shirt  in  the  course  of  the 
day;  he  couldn't  go  to  a  hotel  without  a  night-shirt  at 
least. 

He  was  sobered  a  little  by  these  details;  they  seemed  to 
brush  some  of  the  star  dust  off  his  new  wings  of  freedom 
and  idealistic  union  with  his  ideal. 

Walking  with  his  customary  going-to-business  briskness, 
he  turned  the  corner  and  approached  the  big  stone  side- 
entrance  of  McDavitt's.  Some  one,  a  woman,  a  woman  in 
a  black  bonnet  and  a  wide,  tight,  black  silk  dress,  was 
coming  toward  him  along  Thirty-third  Street.  She 
waved  one  arm  at  him;  she  was  in  a  great  hurry. 

McDavitt's  entrance  lay  nearly  midway  between  them, 
but  Mr.  Francis  reached  it  with  several  yards  to  spare. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Benson!"  he  greeted  her,  pass- 
ingly, scuttled  past  the  anemic  young  man  at  the  door,  and 
was  safe.  No  customers  were  allowed  to  enter  until  the 
opening  bell  rang  at  eight  o'clock. 

Mr.  Francis's  first  feeling  of  relief  was  modified  by  the 
thought  that  his  safety  might  be  threatened  immediately 
after  eight  o'clock.  With  dignity  that  was  but  a  mask  for 
a  perturbed  spirit  he  proceeded  back  to  his  locker,  hung 

up  his  hat,  and  went  to  his  office. 

184 


Second    Youth 


"Good  morning,  Miss  Barney,"  he  said. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Francis,"  she  replied,  favoring 
him  with  an  unusually  languorous  glance  from  her  dark 
blue  eyes. 

Francis  sat  down  at  his  desk.  A  few  blue,  yellow,  and 
red  invoice-slips  decorated  his  file;  he  took  them  off  and 
sorted  them,  with  a  stray  air,  glancing  at  Miss  Barney's 
lingerie-waisted  back.  He  was  not  especially  interested 
in  Miss  Barney's  back,  neatly  curved  back  though  it  was, 
and  he  removed  his  eyes  from  it  immediately  when  he 
noticed  that  she  was  watching  him  in  a  miniature  hand- 
mirror,  held  a  little  to  one  side  on  the  typewriter  desk 
before  her. 

He  was  still  sitting  at  his  desk,  still  shuffling  the  in- 
voices, when  the  gongs  rang  the  announcement  that 
McDavitt's  was  open  to  customers — and  to  any  one  else 
who  might  be  interested  in  anything  in  McDavitt's. 

"  Did  Mr.  Remmick  mention  to  you  yesterday  whether 
or  not  he  expected  to  be  down  to-day?"  he  asked  Miss 
Barney. 

In  a  way,  matters  might  be  simplified  if  Mr.  Remmick 
did  not  appear.  Mr.  Remmick  had  not  appeared  every 
day  recently. 

"Why,  no,  he  didn't,  Mr.  Francis,  not  that  I  remember; 
no,  Mr.  Francis,"  replied  Miss  Barney,  turning  her  chair 
half-way  around  so  that  she  could  face  him.  It  was 
evident  from  Miss  Barney's  superfluity  of  words,  as  well 
as  from  her  look,  that  she  was  glad  to  talk  to  him.  "Prob- 
ably his  rheumatism  is  worse  to-day;  or  it  may  be  that 
he  is  going  to  be  occupied  outside  to-day.  I  heard  him 
saying  yesterday  that  the  war  had  upset  the  silk  business 
so  that  he  hardly  knew  where  he  was  at.  Was  you  ex- 
pecting him  for  anything  in  particular?" 

13  185 


Second    Youth 


"No,"  said  Mr.  Francis,  rapidly  shuffling  his  invoices. 
"No— not  at  all." 

"Because,  if  there  was  anything  in  particular  I  might 
call  him  up  at  his  home,  you  know,  for  you,"  explained 
Miss  Barney.  She  arose,  took  a  large  turkey  duster  from 
a  drawer  of  her  desk,  and  began  to  dust  the  price-file,  stand- 
ing in  profile  so  that  she  could  keep  her  large,  languorous, 
admiring,  dark  blue  eyes  on  Mr.  Francis's  face. 

"Oh  no,  you  needn't  mind,"  said  Francis.  He  arose, 
with  the  colored  slips  in  his  hand.  "If  any  one  calls 
to  see  me,  I'm  very  busy.  I  mean  if  a  lady  calls 
to  see  me,  I'm  busy,"  he  told  the  girl.  "I — in  fact — 
I  hope  I  can  trust  you  not  to  let  any  lady  enter  this 
office."  He  scowled  with  dignity.  "Can  I  trust  you 
to  see  that  no  lady  enters  this  office  while  I  am  away, 
Miss  Barney?" 

"You  certainly  can!"  said  Miss  Barney.  "You  can 
trust  me  for  that,  Mr.  Francis!" 

"Thank  you — thank  you — I'll  try  to  do  something  by 
way  of  repaying  you,"  said  Francis,  and  gave  her  a  quick 
glance  of  gratitude.  His  eyes  lingered,  prolonging  the 
glance  into  at  least  a  glance  and  a  half.  Her  big  eyes  were 
round  "O's"  and  her  full  red  lips  drooped  open  a  little 
with  interest.  She  was  very  trim  and  pretty,  altogether, 
in  her  white-duck  skirt  and  lingerie  waist.  She  was  full  of 
soft  curves,  of  delicate  softnesses  and  soft  color,  and  her 
very  dark  blue  eyes  were  soft;  even  the  thick-fringed 
lids  of  them,  while  he  looked  at  her,  drooped  softly. 

"I'll  remember  to  ask  you  about  that — that  repay- 
ment!" she  told  him,  with  sudden  boldness,  delightfully 
tempered  by  a  blush. 

He  was  diverted  into  asking,  "Well — what  '11  it  be?" 

"I  know  what  I'd  like  it  to  be!"     She  was  blushing 

186 


Second    Youth 


furiously  now,  and  furiously  dusting  off  the  well-dusted 
file. 

Francis  smiled  at  her  with  a  mingling  of  fatherly  con- 
descension, admiration,  and  surprise  that  she  should  seem 
so  interested  in  him,  and  that  he  should,  at  this  moment 
of  stress  and  danger,  be  so  interested  in  her.  "Well — 
name  it !"  he  commanded. 

"I'd  like — "she  glanced  up  at  him  like  a  shy  little 
girl  from  beneath  her  thick  eyelashes — "I'd  like  for  you 
and  me  to  go  to  Coney  next  Saturday  evening!  Will 
you?" 

Francis  laughed.  She  was  very  interesting.  Her  pro- 
posal was  interesting,  too.  Next  Saturday  night,  if  he 
hadn't  put  his  foot  down,  he  would  have  been  getting 
married  to  Mrs.  Benson. 

"We'll  do  it,  Miss  Barney!"  he  decided.  "It  '11  put  a 
— a  crimp  in  something  else  I  was  in  danger  of  doing!" 

"Oh,  something  else!  What — "  She  began,  and 
hesitated  like  a  too  inquisitive  child. 

Francis,  smiling  in  the  superior  manner  of  a  grown 
person  who  has  roused  a  too  inquisitive  child's  curiosity, 
left  the  office  for  the  regions  of  the  receiving  and  stock 
departments. 

He  did  not  smile  after  he  had  left  the  protection  of  his 
office,  and  he  was  most  serious  when,  two  hours  later,  he 
slipped  through  a  corner  of  his  department  and  quietly  re- 
entered  it.  The  matter  of  Mrs.  Benson's  siege  did  not  ap- 
peal to  his  sense  of  humor;  he  was  downright  shaky  after 
having  dangerously  exposed  himself  in  his  trip  between 
the  elevators  and  the  office. 

His  sigh  of  relief  was  cut  short  by  the  look  on  Miss 
Barney's  face,  additionally  tempered  by  Miss  Barney's 

greeting. 

187 


Second    Youth 


"Well!"  said  Miss  Barney,  indignant,  icy,  stiff-necked, 
"your  fiancee  was  here — Mr.  Francis — and  a  fine  time 
I  had  keeping  her  out!" 

Francis  sat  down  at  his  own  desk  and  dignifiedly  ad- 
justed his  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses.  "You  are  mistaken, 
Miss  Barney,"  he  said,  thus  prepared  to  show  her  her 
proper  place.  "I  have  no  fiancee.  The  woman  whom 
you  seem  to — to  have  mistaken  for  my  fiancee — I  am  very 
grateful  to  you  for  keeping  her  out;  and  sorry  if  you  had 
any  difficulty  on  my  account." 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Barney.  Francis,  glancing  up  over 
the  paper-weight  which  he  was  examining,  saw  that  she 
was  mollified.  Her  indignation  had  given  way  to  curi- 
osity. "Then  she  wasn't  really —  Why,  she  said — 
Well,  I'm  glad  I  didn't  let  her  come  in,  anyway — and  I 
was  near  having  to  do  it  one  time,  too!" 

Mr.  Francis  admitted,  with  regret,  "She  is  very  de- 
termined." 

"Determined!"  repeated  Miss  Barney.  "Determined 
isn't  the  word  for  it !  But  I  can  be  a  little  determined,  too, 
when  I  feel  like  it."  She  had  softened — eyes,  mouth,  all 
of  her — and  yet  as  she  made  the  confession  Mr.  Francis 
caught  a  gleam  of  hardness  that  amazed  him  in  one  so 
young  and  soft-looking,  that  verily  reminded  him  of  the 
more  determined  moods  of  Mrs.  Benson.  They  were 
very  peculiar  and  contradictory  characters,  these  women. 

"But  I  told  her  you  were  out,  and  couldn't  be  dis- 
turbed, and  it  was  absolutely  against  the  rules  for  any  one 
to  enter  the  office,"  she  went  on;  and  verily  to  Mr.  Francis 
it  seemed  that  there  was,  in  her  voice  and  eyes,  some- 
thing of  the  protecting,  proprietary  air  that  distinguished 
another  of  the  Benson  attitudes  toward  himself. 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you.     I'm  greatly  obliged,"  he 

188 


Second    Youth 


murmured,  too  much  perturbed  to  be  as  distant  and  dig- 
nified as  he  wanted  to  be. 

Miss  Barney  wheeled  around  in  her  swivel-chair  until 
she  was  directly  facing  him,  energetically  crossed  her 
knees,  and  settled  herself  for  a  chat. 

"I  think  I  understand  just  how  it  is — I  understood  all 
the  time  I  was  talking  to  her,  and  yet,  of  course,  I  was 
surprised  to  hear  you  had  a  fiancee,"  she  told  him.  "  She's 
some  one  who's  taking  advantage  of  you — she's  a  design- 
ing woman.  I  could  see  it  in  everything  she  said.  Of 
course  you'd  make  a  very  good  catch  for  any  woman. 
She  has  just  set  her  cap  for  you,  and  you  may — may  have 
said  something  compromising;  it  is  very  easy  for  a  woman 
to  lead  a  man  like  you  into  compromising  himself — you're 
such  a  perfect  gentleman  you  can't  fight  them  off — and  the 
first  thing  you  know  you're  engaged  to  them." 

"Really,  Miss  Barney — "  Francis  was  appalled  that 
one  so  young  could  know  so  much,  and  yet  determined  to 
preserve  his  dignity  as  her  superior. 

She  flushed,  gave  him  a  glance  of  meek  reproachfulness, 
and  swung  around  with  her  back  to  him.  "  Excuse  me — 
I  was  forgetting  that  you're  the  assistant  buyer  and 
I'm  only  the  stenographer!"  she  murmured,  brokenly. 

"Now,  Miss  Barney,  please — " 

"And  one  of  these  days  you'll  be  the  head  buyer,  and 
I'll  still  be  nothing  but  the  sten-stenographer!" 

"  I'll  see  that  you — you  have  a  raise  in  salary  if  I  ever  am 
head  buyer!" 

Francis  offered  the  idea  as  a  first-aid  remedy  for  threat- 
ened weeps.  He  wanted  to  go  over  and  pat  her  on  the 
shoulder  and  comfort  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  moody 
little  girl;  but  of  course  he  couldn't  do  that;  she  wasn't 
really  a  little  girl;  she  was  a  very  much  grown-up  and 

189 


good-looking  young  lady.  Failing  the  shoulder-pats,  he 
thought  of  retreating  into  the  department  outside;  but 
there  were  reasons  why  the  department  outside  did  not 
appeal  to  him.  Perils  without,  temptations  within — he 
sat  looking  at  her  dejected  back. 

"That's  the  way  with  you  men,'*  she  told  him,  mourn- 
fully, with  her  head  in  her  hands;  "you  think  money's 
everything." 

"Money  is  very  little — very  little  indeed,  Miss  Bar- 
ney!" Francis  was  emphatic  on  the  point.  He  turned 
toward  the  door  of  the  office,  determined  to  face  the  perils 
without.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  capable  pair  of  feet 
proceeding  along  the  outside  of  the  partition.  With  a 
quick,  instinctive  movement  he  shot  back  the  little  button 
that  permitted  the  dead-latch  to  lock  the  door. 

The  feet  went  past.  He  drew  out  his  handkerchief  and 
thoughtfully  wiped  his  brow.  He  was  very  pale.  Miss 
Barney  had  faced  around  and  was  looking  at  him  in  a  way 
that  convinced  him  he  must  have  looked  far  from  normal. 

"You  needn't  have  been  so  scared — you  had  only  to 
step  back  behind  Mr.  Remmick's  desk  and  let  me  go  to 
the  door,"  the  girl  told  him. 

Francis  objected:  "You're  quite  wrong.  I  was  not 
frightened.  I  merely  wished  to  avoid  a — a  painful  en- 
counter." With  the  door  locked,  he  almost  felt  that  he 
hadn't  been  frightened.  The  locked  door  gave  him  a 
feeling  of  security,  of  being  master  of  his  fate,  a  feeling  that 
he  had  missed  ever  since  he  had  left  the  receiving-room. 
He  returned  to  his  desk  and  sat  down.  At  least  he  would 
enjoy  his  feeling  of  security  a  little  while;  it  would  help 
him  to  get  himself  together  before  he  made  the  dangerous 
rounds  of  his  department. 

"Are  you — are  you  going  to  leave  the  door  locked?" 

190 


Second    Youth 


asked  Miss  Barney;  for  some  reason  she  seemed  faintly 
embarrassed,  faintly  uncomfortable. 

"For  the  present,  yes,"  Francis  told  her.  He  resented 
her  continual  intrusion  upon  his  actions  and  ideas. 

She  turned  back  to  her  own  desk.  He  searched  among 
the  papers  for  something  to  do.  It  was  the  middle  of  the 
slack  season,  and  the  department  was  running  itself  au- 
tomatically. Miss  Barney,  also,  had  nothing  to  do. 

He  felt  her  presence  as  he  had  never  felt  it  before; 
something  almost  tangible  seemed  to  emanate  from  her, 
making  him  feel  queer  and  nervous.  His  eyes  strayed  to 
the  softly  rounded,  softly  drooping  curves  of  her  back  and 
arms.  With  a  shock  of  irritation  he  saw  that  she  was 
once  more  observing  him,  using  her  pocket  mirror  some- 
what as  an  intrenched  German  might  have  used  a  peri- 
scope to  observe  the  tactics  of  the  enemy.  There  the 
metaphor  fell  down;  he  had  intuition  enough  to  know  that 
he  was  not  the  enemy,  at  least  only  in  the  sense  of  being 
in  danger  of  a  process  of  benevolent  assimilation. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  do,  Miss  Barney?"  he  demanded, 
sternly,  blushing  in  spite  of  himself. 

"No,  sir."  Her  voice  was  faintly  deferential,  faintly 
mocking.  Sunlight,  a  golden  streak  of  it  from  between 
two  warped  slats  in  the  slat-blinds  before  the  south 
windows,  fell  over  her  dark  brown  hair.  He  had  never 
noticed  her  hair  before;  it  was  soft  and  fluffy  and  full  of 
soft  curves,  like  all  the  rest  of  her. 

"At  least  you  might  try  to  be  less  restless,  less  ner- 
vous— "  He  shut  his  teeth  on  the  complaint.  What 
earthly  right  had  he — 

"Can  you  blame  me?  Some  girls  would  be  a  lot  more 
nervous  and  restless  than  I  am!"  she  shot  at  him,  turning 

to  look  at  him  with  injured,  protesting,  babyish  blue  eyes, 

191 


Second    Youth 


"  I  would  be,  too,  if  I  didn't  know  you  so  well — and — and 
trust  you!" 

Francis  preserved  self-command  enough  to  ask,  "  I  wish 
you'd  explain.  I  don't  believe  I  quite  understand." 

"Of  course  you — didn't  think  of  it."  She  was  gentle 
with  him;  even  if  he  had  put  her  in  a  hard  position,  her 
eyes  and  voice  said  that  she  did  not  hold  it  against  him. 
"And  of  course  you — you  had  good  cause  to  lock  the 
door.  But  many  a  girl  has  lost  her  reputation  by  some 
one  finding  the  office  door  locked,  and  her — her  alone — 
with — with —  And  when  a  girl's  got  nothing  but  her 
reputation — " 

Mr.  Francis  was  already  on  his  horrified  way  to  unlock 
the  door;  quick  as  he  was,  she  was  there  before  him. 

"No,  no!"  she  protested,  putting  her  hand,  her  plump, 
soft  little  hand,  over  the  catch.  "  It  wasn't  that  I  objected 
— I  wouldn't  have  you  exposed — exposed  to  any  danger 
— just  because  I — " 

"I  insist!"  he  murmured,  putting  his  right  hand  on  her 
right  hand  to  take  it  from  the  lock. 

She  caught  his  right  hand  with  her  left  one. 

Both  her  hands  were  wonderfully  soft,  cool,  clinging; 
her  eyes  were  looking  up  into  his — her  long-lashed,  violet, 
pleading  eyes;  and  her  pleading,  parted,  soft  red  lips 
were  just  below  them — just  below  them — somewhere  in  an 
ecstatic  pink  mist. 

She  was  in  his  arms,  and  he  had  kissed  her  before  he 
knew  what  he  was  doing.  The  process  of  becoming  en- 
gaged to  Mrs.  Benson  had  not  been  half  so  abrupt,  so 
dazingly  swift,  unexpected,  unavoidable  as  that  embrace 
and  kiss. 

He  stood  there,  remote,  shut  off  from  time  and  space, 

holding  her  to  him,  softly  smoothing  her  brown  hair.     His 

192 


Second    Youth 


fingers  touched  her  cheek,  lingered;  fine  silk  was  never 
so  delicate,  so  magically  soft  and  beautiful  as  this. 

*'Oh,  Mr.  Francis!"  she  murmured,  nestling  her  head, 
nestling  the  yielding  wonder  of  all  of  her,  against  him, 
"you  have  such  beautiful  hands!" 

Time  and  space  and  other  considerations  crashed  in 
upon  him  at  that,  crashed  upon  him  as  if  they  had  been 
an  avalanche  released  by  her  little  murmuring  whisper. 

"Forgive  me — forgive  me — a  mistake — I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  doing!"  he  choked,  got  the  door  open,  and 
fled. 

He  walked  unsteadily  straight  out  into  his  department, 
heedless  of  the  Charybdis  that  might  be  waiting  for  him; 
if  he  had  come  face  to  face  with  a  black-bonneted,  wide, 
tight  Charybdis  in  black  silk  it  could  have  devoured  him 
before  he  would  have  realized  that  he  was  in  danger. 
He  was  unstrung.  He  admitted  it  in  the  first  line  that 
he  wrote  in  the  book  when,  some  fifteen  minutes  later, 
returning  intelligence  had  warned  him  of  his  danger  and 
sent  him  off  to  the  seclusion  of  a  silk- vault  in  the  receiving- 
room. 

He  wrote-' 


I  am  unstrung.  I  seem  to  add  fault  to  fault,  all  of  them 
much  the  same.  I  am  certainly  not  in  love  with  Miss 
Barney,  and  why  I  did  what  I  did  is  beyond  me.  I  cannot 
understand  myself.  I  am  becoming  a  debased  character. 

How  shall  I  ever  return  to  the  office  now?  And  I  have 
reasons  for  wi  hing  to  avoid  the  department  outside. 
If  it  came  to  a  positive  choice,  however,  I  could  marry 
Miss  Barney  more  easily  than  I  could  Mrs.  Benson.  But 
I  cannot  marry  both  of  them,  and  they  both  now  have 


Second    Youth 


claims  on  me.  I  fear  I  shall  yet  be  forced  to  go  some- 
where else — take  to  the  tall  timber,  as  Whiggam  would 
say.  And  yet  I  will  not  be  flippant  about  this  matter. 
It  does  not  appeal  to  me  as  a  very  flippant  matter,  and 
that  is  the  truth.  I  do  not  see  how  many  men  can 
be  so  flippant  about  such  things.  There  is,  at  bottom, 
something  deadly  serious  about  them.  It  is  a  deadly 
serious  matter  to  break  a  woman's  heart.  People  may 
laugh  about  it  all  they  wish,  it  may  seem  laughable  on  the 
surface;  below  it  is  not.  It  is  not — but  what  can  a  man  do? 

It  is,  in  a  way,  damnable  to  be  a  man,  to  almost  without 
your  will  do  things  that  fill  you  with  misery  afterward. 
If  a  man  has  to  do  these  things,  he  ought  not  to  have  the 
intelligence  to  see  what  he  has  done  and  regret  it  after- 
ward. And  yet  many  men  are  worse  than  I  am  in  this 
particular,  although  not  very  many,  I  fear.  I  seem  to  be 
growing  steadily  worse. 

I  will  go  to  the  library  to-night  and  read  some  of 
Spencer's  First  Principles.  It  ought  to  quiet  me.  It  is 
Tuesday  night;  Miss  Baumann  will  be  there,  and  she  will 
quiet  me,  also.  It  will  quiet  me  just  to  look  at  her,  she 
seems  so  sane  and  quiet  and  level-headed.  There  is  nothing 
about  her  that  excites  me  as  there  is  about  Miss  Barney, 
and  used  to  be  about  Mrs.  Benson  until  I  got  over  it.  I 
used  to  think  that  uplifted  feeling  I  had  when  I  was  with 
Mrs.  Benson  was  a  fine  thing,  but  since  then  I've  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  it  was  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing. 
If  a  man  had  that  feeling  strong  enough  he  might  become 
a  wolf  himself,  almost.  Every  man  has  some  of  the  wolf 
in  him,  anyway. 

It  is  altogether  terrible.  I  am  so  nervous  I  can  hardly 
write.  If  Mr.  Remmick  were  here  I  should  ask  to  be 
excused  for  the  rest  of  the  day  and  go  for  a  good  long  walk, 

m 


Second    Youth 


But  he  is  away  again  to-day,  and  there  has  to  be  a  respon- 
sible head  in  the  department.  You  are  a  fine  responsible 
head,  you  are,  Francis,  sneaking  up  here  in  the  receiving- 
room,  where  nobody  could  find  you  if  you  were  needed. 
If  one  of  the  merchandise  men  came  along  you'd  probably 
get  notice. 

I  shall  return  to  my  department,  where  my  place  is,  come 
what  may.  I  can  keep  a  sharp  lookout,  and  there  are 
numerous  ways  of  retreat  if  necessary.  A  man  must  have 
some  backbone.  Cheer  up,  Francis,  old  horse,  the  worst 
is  yet  to  come!  Those  words  of  Whiggam's  probably  fit 
my  case  quite  well.  However,  I  shall  give  in  with  my 
back  to  the  wall. 


Back  to  the  department  he  went  and  strolled  among  his 
silks.  His  head  was  held  high,  his  face  was  pale  and 
calm;  he  looked  dignified,  intellectual,  full  of  enough  aloof 
gentility  to  add  a  flavor  to  McDavitt's  entire  silk  de- 
partment. 

Behind  his  deceitful  exterior  he  was  laying  out  the  whole 
department  in  strategical  salients,  main  positions,  second- 
ary positions,  and  lines  of  retreat.  His  thoughts  went 
back  to  the  fine  elevation  he  had  reached  during  his 
morning  walk  and  soar;  his  wings  had  broken,  he  had 
come  down  from  the  clouds  in  record  time,  and  the  basic 
earth  of  reality  had  not  lightly  received  him.  Toils, 
large,  strong,  supple,  comprehensive  toils,  tightened 
around  him.  He  put  in  a  day  of  regrets  for  the  past  and 
fears  for  the  future,  with  a  lively  lot  of  present  com- 
plexities sandwiched  in  between. 

After  the  store  closed  he  went  to  a  restaurant  for  dinner, 

a  cheap  place,  picked  because  of  a  sudden  idea  that  he 

195 


Second    Youth 


might  before  long  have  need  of  all  the  money  he  could 
scrape  together.  While  he  tried  to  eat  he  had  a  vision 
of  himself  seated  at  the  right  hand  of  Mrs.  Benson,  the 
landlady  almighty,  the  smiles  of  Whiggam;  he  even 
suffered  a  brief  repetition  of  the  miniature  chill  he  had 
suffered  every  time  she  called  him  "Roland."  How  had 
he  ever  managed  to  stand  it — how  had  he  ever  managed 
to  keep  himself  from  wilting  down  under  the  table! 

He  wandered  out  of  the  restaurant  and  stood  for  a 
little  time  on  the  curb.  A  young  man  loitered  by,  swing- 
ing a  cane,  puffing  at  a  pipe;  the  smoke  from  the  pipe 
floated  soothingly,  dreamily  from  the  young  man's  mouth. 
The  young  man's  whole  personality  seemed  to  gain  ease 
and  poise  from  that  pipe. 

Francis  went  to  the  nearest  cigar-store  and  bought  him 
a  pipe  for  twenty-five  cents,  and  a  tin  of  tobacco  for  ten, 
and  a  box  of  matches  for  a  penny.  He  tried  the  pipe, 
standing  on  the  curb  before  the  store.  It  was  good:  it 
was  neither  upsettingly  strong,  like  cigars,  nor  insipidly 
sickening,  like  cigarettes.  He  strode  off,  smoking  his  pipe 
in  quieting  gusts.  He  was  glad  he  had  discovered  Pipe. 
Pipe  and  Cane — two  friends  for  a  man  who  was  lonesome 
and  rather  afraid  of  life  as  it  was  served  up  to  him. 

He  puffed  Pipe,  holding  it  out  betweenwhiles  to  get 
the  general  effect  of  its  nice,  half-bulldog  curved  bit,  to 
really  become  acquainted  with  it.  Even  if  he  had  no 
home,  even  if  he  was  shut  off  from  his  razor,  his  comb 
and  brush,  his  night-shirt,  his  tooth-brush,  all  the  things 
necessary  even  to  a  frugal  bachelor-man,  he  was  not 
altogether  forlorn.  He  could  send  for  them  to-morrow. 
In  the  mean  time  he  had  Pipe.  There  was  philosophy  in 
Pipe.  Taken  together  with  Cane,  one  soothing  him  with 

its  slow  utterance  of  smoke,  the  other  ready  for  defense  or 

196 


Second    Youth 


offense  against  a  hostile  world — how  excellent  and  bal- 
anced a  life  a  man  might  lead  with  ho  other  companions 
than  Pipe  and  Cane ! 

How  well  a  man  might  get  on  without  human  com- 
panions, at  least.  Of  course  there  would  be  books,  wise 
books  and  foolish  books,  poetry  and  philosophy  and  novels 
with  smiles  and  patches  of  real  life  in  them.  Good  books, 
a  reading-lamp,  a  decent  room  in  a  decent  house,  a  daily 
work  among  such  good  commodities  as  silks — all  these 
added  to  Pipe  and  Cane — how  blissfully  happy  a  man 
could  be  if  allowed  to  enjoy  such  blessings  in  peace  of 
mind  and  body!  Already  he  was  sickened  of  love,  of 
women,  and  of  the  frightful  nerve-racking  complexities 
connected  with  them. 

He  strolled  down  Broadway,  beginning  at  last  to  get  a 
glimpse  into  some  such  future  as  he  seemed  meant  for, 
as  harmonized  with  what  life  had  made  of  him.  Perhaps, 
in  the  course  of  time,  he  might  even  have  a  friend  or  two, 
a  man  friend,  a  man  who  knew  things,  and  would  visit 
with  him,  or  go  to  the  theater  with  him,  or  to  concerts 
at  Carnegie  Hall — and  not  find  fault  with  "high-brow 
fiddling."  Once  let  him  get  rid  of  the  women  and  the 
thoughts  of  women  that  had  been  tearing  him  to  pieces, 
and  there  might  be  a  dazzling  variety  of  joys  for  him. 

McNab — he  thought  of  McNab.  He  would  try  to  find 
McNab.  McNab  had  shown  significantly  bitter  agree- 
ment with  his  quotation  about  love's  golden  chain  and 
friendship's  steel  links.  If  he  could  find  McNab  and 
agree  with  him  that  spirituous  liquors  of  all  sorts  were  to 
be  avoided,  McNab  might  be  just  the  friend  he  was 
hungering  for. 

By  the  time  he  reached  the  Eleventh  Street  library 

branch,  at  eight  o'clock,  he  was  in  the  way  of  being  a 

197 


Second    Y outh 


fairly  complete  misogynist.  He  went  in,  and  met  Rose 
Baumann. 

"I've  been  expecting  you — hoping  you'd  come  in  this 
evening,"  she  told  him.  "Not  only  because  I  like  to  see 
you,  but  because  I've  got  a  fine  new  book  for  you.  It 
isn't  really  new,  it  was  written  some  years  ago,  but  the 
ideas  of  it  are  still  new  enough — and  likely  to  be  new  for 
several  generations  yet.  It's  Love's  Coming  of  Age,  by 
Edward  Carpenter.  I  hope  you  haven't  read  it." 

"I  haven't  read  it.  The  title  sounds  inviting,"  said 
Francis.  He  liked  the  look  of  her,  he  liked  her  words; 
she  did  not  come  under  the  heading  of  his  misogyny.. 
Her  whole  attitude  toward  him  reminded  him  of  McNab's. 

She  gave  him  the  book,  and  he  took  it  back  to  a  table 
to  read.  He  had  decided  to  read  until  the  library  closed 
at  nine  o'clock,  after  which  he  would  have  plenty  of  time 
to  look  up  a  hotel.  He  remembered  that  he'd  forgotten 
to  get  himself  a  night-shirt,  but  he  could  sleep  in  his  day- 
shirt  one  night  if  it  came  to  a  pinch. 

Rose  Baumann's  fingers  were  really  e'en!,  he  decided, 
opening  the  book  she  had  given  him.  It  was  a  curious 
color,  odd  and  interesting. 


XIII 

DENATURED,  OR  COME-BACK-LESS,  LOVE  IS  CALLED  TO  HIS 
ATTENTION 

T  OVE'S  COMING  OF  AGE  did  not  appeal  to  Francis; 
-*— '  its  opening  eulogy  of  the  divine  nature  of  human 
love  struck  conditions  in  his  breast  not  properly  attuned 
to  such  matters.  He  found  himself  looking  over  the  top 
of  the  book  at  the  young  lady  who  had  recommended  it 
to  him. 

She  was  sitting  at  the  librarian's  desk,  reading.  Her 
hair  was  very  dark  and  brushed  down  smooth  as  ebony 
above  her  wide,  low  forehead.  Her  face  was  one  of  those 
anomalous  suggestions  of  a  Greek-and-Japanese  mixture 
that  occasionally  appear  among  Jewish  girls;  her  straight 
nose  made  almost  an  unbroken  line  with  her  forehead, 
her  dark  face  was  almost  a  perfect  oval,  and  the  canthus 
of  each  large,  brown-black,  velvety  eye  slanted  downward 
in  the  Japanese  way.  Japanese,  too,  was  the  clear  olive 
of  her  complexion,  made  clearer,  almost  translucent,  it 
seemed,  by  the  green-shaded  electric  reading-lamp  before 
her. 

Francis,  skipping  through  his  book  without  much  in- 
terest, discovered  that  love's  troublesomeness  was  caused 
by  its  tendency  to  bind  people  together — and  that  Rose 
Baumann  had  a  singularly  keen,  quick,  intellectual  face. 

He  was  mildly  surprised  to  learn  that  love,  by  being  freed 

199 


Second    Youth 


of  its  tendency  to  bind  and  trammel  its  victims,  might  be 
made  a  glorious  thing — and  also  that  Rose  Baumann  was 
casting  occasional  interested  glances  in  his  direction. 
He  was  edified  by  the  thought  that  true  love  was  a  com- 
radeship, needing  no  sanction  from  clergy  or  state — and 
that  possibly  Miss  Baumann,  as  a  friend,  might  do  almost 
as  well  as  McNab.  She  knew  things;  she  was  ready  to 
talk  about  things  in  an  impersonal,  man-to-man  sort  of 
way,  and  she  might  like  even  "high-brow  fiddling." 

He  gave  up  trying  to  read  Edward  Carpenter's  book — 
it  was  not  well  written,  anyway — and  stared  vacantly 
across  the  wide,  low,  quiet,  shelf-lined  reading-room 
of  the  library.  It  was  nearly  nine  by  the  square  electrical 
clock  on  the  opposite  wall.  He  wanted  to  talk  to  some- 
body, to  somebody  like  McNab — or  Rose  Baumann. 
Almost  as  if  she  had  been  summoned,  Miss  Baumann 
came  through  the  little  wicket  and  walked  toward  him. 

There  were  two  other  late  readers,  a  man  and  a  girl, 
sitting  at  the  magazine-table  in  the  extreme  rear  of  the 
room.  Francis  was  embarrassed. 

Miss  Baumann  began  to  gather  up  the  stray  volumes 
left  on  chairs  and  tables.  It  appeared  that  she  hadn't 
come  back  to  talk  to  him,  after  all;  she  had  only  come 
back  to  make  preparations  for  closing.  He  ceased  to  be 
embarrassed  and  became  regretful. 

She  gathered  up  the  stray  volumes  on  his  table  without 
speaking  to  him,  without  more  than  a  glance  at  him,  re- 
stored them  to  their  shelves,  and  went  back  to  tidy  up  the 
magazine-table.  The  girl  who  had  been  sitting  there  rose 
to  go;  the  man  followed  close  behind  her.  He  was  a 
young  fellow  with  a  bold,  reddish,  pugnacious  face. 

Francis  watched  them  go  out  through  the  little  exit 
wicket,  close  together,  and,  still  close  together,  pass  into 

200 


Second    Youth 


the  lobby.  There  the  girl  turned  suddenly  and  gave  the 
following  young  man  a  look  of  withering  scorn.  The  man 
stopped,  and  let  her  go  out  alone,  casting  one  glance  back 
into  the  library  to  see  if  any  one  had  observed  his  dis- 
grace. He  looked  wilted. 

The  idea  of  a  man  following  a  girl  was  so  foreign  to 
Francis's  nature  and  experience  that  he  looked  on  in  dull 
amazement.  He  had  seen  it  done  often  enough,  of  course, 
and  yet  he  could  not  understand  the  mental  processes  of  a 
man  who  would  do  such  a  thing. 

"You  didn't  care  much  for  that  book,  did  you?" 

"Ah —  Oh — no — I  didn't  particularly  care  for  it," 
admitted  Francis. 

Rose  Baumann  was  standing  on  the  other  side  of  his 
table.  "I  thought  probably  you  wouldn't!"  She  flashed 
a  sudden,  discerning  smile  at  him  that  seemed  to  penetrate 
as  if  it  had  been  sharp  and  pointed.  And  yet  the  pene- 
trating sensation  was  far  from  disagreeable.  It  seemed  to 
intimate  that  she  understood  him,  had  got  beneath  his 
skin.  He  let  his  admiration  for  this  facility  of  hers  get 
into  his  eyes. 

"Why  did  you  think  that?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  you're  an  idealist.  You'd  think  that  love  is 
something  like  sunshine  and  roses — that  it  has  no  sharp 
corners  that  need  fixing." 

"You're  wrong  there- — I  certainly  believe  no  such 
thing!"  He  was  glad,  at  least,  that  he  could  correct  her 
on  that  point;  it  gave  him  a  certain  sense  of  superiority. 
"The  principal  reason  that  I  disagree  with  him  is  that  I 
think  love's  so  far  gone  nothing  but  dynamite  will  do  it 
any  good!" 

"Oh — you  really  believe  that?" 

"I  do— thoroughly." 

14  201 


Second    Youth 


"Well,  most  married  love  may  be  like  that — although, 
perhaps,  I  oughtn't  to  say  anything  against  married  love 
until  I  know  whether — " 

"No,  I'm  not  married!"  Francis  told  her,  laughing. 
The  way  in  which  she  approached  the  question,  her  in- 
terest in  the  question  itself,  reminded  him  of  a  former  occa- 
sion. Miss  Barney,  also,  had  reminded  him  at  least 
twice  of  former  occasions.  Were  women  all  alike? 
Didn't  they  vary  their  procedure  at  all?  He  was  begin- 
ning to  find  the  Complete  Misogynist's  amusement  in  the 
ways  of  the  gentler  sex.  He  was  old  in  the  ways  of  love; 
he  who  had  been  engaged  to  one  woman  for  three  days 
and  had  kissed  another  one — he  was  blase  and  satirical. 

Miss  Baumann  seemed  to  understand  his  thought- 
processes  perfectly;  but  she  was  not  disturbed  by  them. 

"That  was  rather  crude  of  me,  wasn't  it?"  she  remarked, 
placing  the  tips  of  her  two  e"cru-colored  hands  on  the 
table,  and  smiled  back  at  him  with  great  good  humor. 
"But  you  can't  really  talk  to  a  married  man,  you  know. 
The  process  of  getting  married  seems  to  freeze  up  their 
thought  centers — or  maybe  they're  afraid  of  letting  out 
anything  about  the  state  into  which  they've  got  them- 
selves!" 

Francis  remarked,  surprised  at  his  own  sang-froid,  "I 
take  it  that  you're  no  admirer  of  the  state  of  marriage." 

"I'm  not!" 

"Perhaps  you've  been  married — if  you'll  excuse  the 
question — since  you  as  good  as  asked  me  if  I  was?" 

"I  have  been — and  have  got  completely  over  it." 

He  was  astonished;  she  seemed  young  to  have  gone  so 
deeply  into  the  mystery  about  whose  edges  he  had  been 
lingering. 

"Maybe  you're  just  the  person  I'm  looking  for,"  he 

202 


Second    Youth 


said,  after  a  short  silence;  he  was  less  satirical,  much  more 
serious.  "  At  least  I  was  anxious  to  find  some  one — with 
experience — to  tell  me  something  about  marriage — until  I 
decided  that  I  wasn't  meant  for  it!" 

"I  could  tell  you  quite  a  lot  about  marriage,"  she 
volunteered,  with  a  look  on  her  face  that  reminded  him 
a  little  of  some  recent  expressions  evoked  on  his  own  face 
by  the  same  general  subject.  "But  now  I  have  to  close 
up.  If  you'd  care  to  walk  with  me  a  little  way  I  might 
give  you  some  information." 

Francis,  with  apologies  for  having  kept  her,  said  that 
he'd  be  glad  to  walk  a  way  with  her.  "I've  wanted  to 
talk  with  you  for  a  long  time,  anyway;  just  as  a  man 
might  want  to  talk  with  another  man — whom  he  thought 
knew  things,  you  know,"  he  told  her,  achieving  a  blush 
before  he  had  finished  his  confession. 

A  faint,  dark  red  came  up  under  the  olive  pallor  of  her 
cheeks.  "Just  wait  out  in  the  lobby  till  I  get  my  hat 
and  turn  out  the  lights,"  she  said;  and  he  went  through 
the  wicket,  wondering  why  both  of  them  should  seem  a 
little  embarrassed  by  that  perfectly  friendly  confession. 

The  room  lights  went  out  shortly  afterward  and  she 
came  out  of  the  darkness  to  meet  him.  A  wide  white- 
straw  sailor  covered  most  of  the  polished  blackness  of  her 
hair;  she  was  carelessly  drawing  on  a  pair  of  long  white 
cotton  gloves,  and  a  little  silver-mesh  bag  dangled  rhyth- 
mically from  one  olive-tinted  arm. 

"I'm  sorry  if  you  have  to  go  right  home,"  said  Francis, 
walking  by  her  side.  "It  would  be  nice  if  we  could  go — 
go  somewhere,  and  have  a  talk.  I  have  a  lot  of  things  to 
talk  about.  Won't  you  let  me  carry  your  jacket?" 

She  gave  him  the  coat  of  her  blue-serge  suit  to  carry. 

"Why — I  don't  suppose  it  would  be  out  of  the  way  if  I 

203 


Second    Youth 


didn't  hurry  home,"  she  said.  "We  might  drop  in  at  the 
Rising  Sun  Restaurant.  Have  you  ever  been  there?" 

He  admitted  that  he  hadn't,  but  opined  that  he  would 
like  to  go. 

"It's  right  on  our  way,  in  the  middle  of  the  next 
block — that's  why  I  thought  of  it.  It  '11  be  worth 
your  while  to  see  it,  anyway.  We  won't  have  much 
privacy,  but  perhaps  we  can  hear  ourselves  talk — if  we 
raise  our  voices." 

They  turned  in  at  the  iron-barred  basement  entrance 
of  one  of  the  old  brick-and-brownstone  dwellings  that 
lined  the  street.  "It's  a  private  club,  you  know,"  she 
explained;  "I  believe  they're  so  secretive  because  they 
haven't  taken  out  a  club  license."  She  rattled  the  iron- 
barred  gate.  "Sometimes  they  can't  hear  you  for  the 
noise  inside,"  she  explained;  "and  when  they  can't,  it's  a 
sign  that  you'd  better  stay  out!" 

The  inner  door  was  opened  enough  to  permit  a  bushy- 
haired  young  man's  head  to  protrude. 

"Hello,  Willy!"  said  Miss  Baumann. 

"Hello,  Rose!"  said  the  bushy-haired  young  man,  and 
came  to  unlock  the  iron  gate. 

Francis  went  through  a  hallway,  the  duplicate  of  Mrs. 
Benson's  basement  hallway,  and  turned  into  what  would 
have  been  Mrs.  Benson's  basement  dining-room,  if  the 
analogy  had  held. 

The  analogy  held  no  further  than  the  door  to  the 
dining-room.  The  big  room  was  bare  of  knickknacks, 
carpet,  wall-paper,  and  all  except  elementary  furniture. 
Rough  wooden  tables  and  a  score  of  cane-bottomed  chairs 
cluttered  the  room;  half  a  dozen  persons  sat  around  the 
largest  table,  in  front  of  the  old  white-marble  mantel; 

some  had  food,  some  various  drinkables,  before  them, 

204 


Second    Youth 


and  all  were  talking,  and  all  were  smoking  cigarettes. 
They  sat  in  a  Niflheim  of  blue  mist,  conversing,  eating, 
drinking,  exploring  such  matters  as  Sunrise  Club  members 
were  accustomed  to  explore.  They  greeted  Miss  Bau- 
mann  with  a  chorus  of  "Hello,  Rose!"  and  some  waved 
arms  and  flourished  cigarettes. 

Miss  Baumann,  with  a  general  "Hello,  folks!"  of  greet- 
ing, led  the  way  to  a  little  corner  table  as  far  removed 
from  the  center  of  discussion  as  possible,  and  Francis 
sat  down  with  his  back  to  it. 

"7  don't  care!"  insisted  a  raised  and  angry  man's  voice 
behind  him.  "She  has  a  right  to  her  freedom — it  makes 
no  difference  whether  he's  done  anything  or  not!" 

The  bushy-haired  youth  appeared  at  Miss  Baumann's 
side. 

"I'm  going  to  have  one  of  your  nice  lemonades,  Willy," 
she  told  him;  and  advised  Mr.  Francis,  "Willy's  lemon- 
ades are  famous!" 

"Don't  you  let  her  buffalo  you;  she's  always  on  the 
water-wagon.  We've  got  some  extra  good  Scotch  to- 
night," counter-advised  the  youth. 

"Lemonade,  please,"  said  Francis,  feeling  virtuous,  if  a 
trifle  caddish. 

"/ — don't — CARE!"  The  same  careless  man  was  be- 
coming more  careless.  "Let  her  get  his  money  if  she  can 
— and  as  much  of  it  as  she  can!  He  had  no  right  to 
marry  her.  Nobody  has  any  right  to  marry  anybody!" 

Mr.  Francis  was  mildly  amused.  It  struck  him  that  all 
those  people  behind  him  were  humorous  characters,  some- 
thing like  Whiggam,  although  in  a  different  variety  of 
humor. 

"Strong  talk!"  he  commented  to  Miss  Baumann. 

"But  pretty  straight  talk!" 

205 


Second    Youth 


"Oh — people  have  to  be  married,  don't  they?"  pro- 
tested Francis. 

"  Not  at  all.  Most  of  those  people  at  that  table  aren't 
married." 

"Well — what  of  it?    Neither  are  you  and  I!" 

"It  isn't  quite  the  same;    I  mean — " 

"7  don't — care — a — DAMN!"  The  careless  man  was 
gradually  surpassing  himself.  "She  may  have  brought 
sixteen  men  to  sixteen  hotel  rooms  sixteen  nights  in  suc- 
cession, and  sixteen  hundred  chambermaids  may  swear  to 
it  till  they're  blue  in  the  face!  The  point  I  make  is  this: 
He  married  her,  didn't  he?  Well,  let  him  stand  by  his 
bargain  and  endow  her  with  all  his  worldly  goods  till 
death  it  do  them  part!  Make  all  of  'em  stick  by  their 
bargains!  The  tighter  society  makes  'em  stick  the  sooner 
the  whole  cursed  institution  will  go  by  the  board!  Make 
him  stick,  say  I,  to  the  last  farthing!  To  the  last  drop  o' 
BLOOD!" 

The  bushy-haired  boy  brought  the  lemonades. 

"They're  talking  about  the  Twombly  divorce  case," 
said  Miss  Baumann.  "I  suppose  you've  noticed  it  in  the 
newspapers?" 

Francis  paid  for  the  lemonades,  accepted  five  cents  in 
change,  and  slipped  the  coin  back  into  his  pocket.  This 
disposition  of  the  five  cents  was  his  only  sign  of  nervous- 
ness. The  bushy-haired  youth  went  away  grieved. 

"I  haven't  been  reading  the  newspapers  lately,"  ad- 
mitted Francis,  sipping  his  lemonade.  "This  lemonade  is 
good.  Thank  you  for  recommending  it." 

"  Twombly 's  specialty  seemed  to  be  department-store 
girls,"  commented  Miss  Baumann,  looking  over  his 
shoulder  where  general  discussion  raged  until  the  careless 
man  should  again  lift  a  geyser  of  comment  above  the 

206 


Second    Youth 


surrounding  welter.  "He's  a  bad  lot,  undoubtedly;  but 
there  seems  to  be  some  difference  of  opinion  as  to  whether 
his  wife  is  justified  in  asking  for  alimony  of  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars  a  year." 

Francis  suggested,  "Alimony  is  usual  in  such  cases, 
isn't  it?" 

"Oh  yes,  but  there  seems  to  be  a  growing  feeling  against 
the  justice  of  alimony  in  general;  and  besides — "  She 
sipped  her  lemonade,  and  Mr.  Francis  sipped  his.  "Twom- 
bly's  trying  to  prove  that  she  brought  a  man  to  the  Hotel 
Boulogne  one  night — after  registering  for  him  and  her- 
self in  advance  as  Mr.  Somebody  and  wife.  If  she's  been 
as  bad  as  he  has,  it  doesn't  seem  that  he  ought  to  be 
separated  from  that  amount  of  money,  does  it?" 

"Let's  see — the  Hotel  Boulogne — that's  up  on  Fifth 
Avenue — somewhere  near  Thirty-first  Street,  isn't  it?" 
Francis  was  reflective. 

Miss  Baumann  nodded.  "It  all  just  goes  to  show  the 
miserable  tangle  that  our  marriage  and  divorce  laws  get 
people  into.  Just  think,  for  instance,  of  that  one  un- 
known man — they  haven't  found  him  yet,  and  the  chances 
are  they  never  will — just  think  of  his  being  able  to  make 
a  difference  of  twenty  thousand  dollars  a  year  to  a  woman ! 
Looked  at  from  any  angle,  it's  a  mass  of  deceit — " 

"It's  a  muddle — the  whole  thing  is  one  beastly  mud- 
dle!" declared  Francis,  raising  his  voice.  "H.  G.  Wells  is 
right — the  whole  miserable  muddle  ought  to  be  shot  to 
pieces!  I  don't  blame  anybody  for  wanting  to  build 
destroyers!" 

"A  Daniel  to  the  judgment!"  boomed  the  careless 
geyser  from  the  table  behind  Francis's  back.  "That's 
the  way  to  talk!" 

Francis  turned  half  around  in  his  chair. 

207 


Second    Youth 


"But  don't  you  think,"  cried  a  lady  at  him,  a  lady  in  a 
silk  waist  with  a  pattern  like  old-fashioned  wall-paper, 
a  thin,  lined  face,  an  aquiline  nose,  and  flashing  black 
eyes — "don't  you  think!  That  it  might  be  better  for 
people!  just  to — to — disregard!  entangling  alliances!" 
She  waved  an  accipitrine  hand  on  the  end  of  a  long,  thin 
arm  at  him;  her  way  of  talking  and  winking  her  eyes  was 
very  exclamatory. 

Francis  turned  back,  in  some  horror,  to  face  Miss 
Baumann. 

"/  think  we'd  better  go!"  she  told  him,  in  a  lowered 
voice. 

"Let's,"  agreed  Francis.  He  was  suddenly  limp;  his 
single  flare-up  had  exhausted  his  geyser  propensities.  He 
rose  and  followed  her  out  to  the  street,  waiting,  with 
knees  that  trembled,  while  the  bushy-haired  boy  un- 
locked the  outer  postern.  His  talk  with  Miss  Baumann 
had  not  quieted  him  as  he  had  expected. 

And  yet,  now  that  he  was  out  on  the  silent  street,  he 
felt  once  more  the  sober,  quieting  spirit  of  the  girl  beside 
him.  He  took  her  arm;  without  thinking  what  he  was 
doing,  he  took  her  arm  and  pressed  it  a  little  against  his 
shoulder. 

"You  don't  seem  to  fit  back  there,"  he  told  her. 

"  It  is  rather  hectic — the  trouble  with  new  ideas  is  that 
people  will  insist  on  getting  drunk  on  them,"  she  said. 
"  It's  dispiriting.  I  don't  wonder,  either,  that  you  looked 
suddenly  so  faint;  the  air — and  it  was  a  typical  sort  of  new 
idea,  too,  I  have  to  admit — was  frightful.  You  must 
have  been  overworking  lately." 

"  I  guess  I  have,"  he  admitted. 

"You  high-strung  bachelors — you're  always  going  to 

pieces !     Really,  you  look  like  a  wreck!"     They  were  pass- 

208 


Second    Y  outh 


ing  near  an  electric  light  and  she  was  calmly  studying  his 
face.  "Have  you  far  to  go  home?" 

He  laughed,  and  admitted,  "  I  don't  know."  Of  course 
he  had  to  explain  that.  Before  he  was  through  explain- 
ing he  had  outlined  the  history  of  his  relations  with 
Mrs.  Benson.  It  cheered  him  up  to  tell  the  story;  he 
saw  the  humorous  side  of  at  least  some  of  his  misfortunes. 
"So  now  I'm  as  homeless  as  the  stray  tom-cat  she  was 
always  comparing  me  to!"  he  finished.  He  felt  rather 
light-headed  and  foolish;  he  had  neglected  to  tell  her 
what  had  brought  on  the  attack  of  spouting  that  made 
him  feel  that  way.  He  might  discuss  Mrs.  Benson  with 
her,  but  not  Miss  Winton — no  matter  what  Miss  Winton 
had  or  had  not  done. 

She  removed  his  hand  suddenly  from  her  arm  and 
slipped  her  hand  through  his  arm  instead.  "Won't  you 
come  up  to  my  apartment  and  let  me  get  you  a  glass  of 
hot  milk  before  you  look  for  a  hotel?"  she  begged.  "I'm 
living  alone — no  one  will  be  disturbed — and  I  have  always 
felt  a  sort  of  sympathy  for  stray  tom-cats!"  she  finished, 
laughing  at  him. 

He  thanked  her,  and  said  he  would;  he  had  a  guilty 
feeling  that  she  thought  he  was  more  in  need  of  a  glass  of 
warm  milk  than  he  really  was.  Women  had  a  way  of 
thinking  that  about  him,  it  seemed. 

"Anyway,  nothing  is  better  for  a  stray  tom-cat  than 
warm  milk,  I'm  sure!"  he  told  her. 

"I  don't  know  but  that  a  nice  tabby  to  look  after  him 
and  keep  him  at  home  nights  might  not  be  even  better!" 
she  retorted;  and,  after  he  had  fully  digested  this  in- 
formation, he  marveled  anew  at  the  sameness  of  the  sex. 

Along  with  his  marveling  came  a  question  as  to  just 

how  far  Miss  Baumann's  attitude  might  go  in  the  general 

209 


Second    Youth 


Benson  direction.  He  was  not  alarmed  by  the  idea  that 
he  might  be  kidnapped,  forcibly  married,  by  the  girl  who 
was  so  capably  guiding  his  feet  in  the  direction  of  Wash- 
ington Square;  he  was  only  rested,  amused  by  it.  At 
bottom,  he  knew  that  he  was  in  no  danger  of  any  such 
proceeding.  For  one  thing,  she  didn't  believe  in  mar- 
riage; for  another,  he  had  intuition  enough  to  catch  the 
disinterested  friendliness  of  her  attitude.  There  was 
nothing  grasping,  clinging,  about  her,  as  there  had  been  so 
notably  about  Mrs.  Benson  and  about  Miss  Barney. 
She  would  let  him  go  whenever  he  wanted  to  go.  He 
began  to  appreciate  that  a  man  might  have  a  friend,  a 
very  good  and  dear  friend,  who  was  not  another  man. 

She  escorted  him  up  three  flights  of  stairs  and  into  the 
front  room  of  her  apartment.  The  lighting  of  a  green- 
shaded  table  gas-lamp  revealed  a  small,  square  room,  with 
a  brown  Greek-bordered  rug  on  the  floor,'  plain,  dark 
yellow  wall-paper,  and  cheap,  comfortable  furniture. 

He  drank  his  milk,  that  she  went  into  the  kitchen  to 
warm  upon  the  gas-stove  for  him,  and  thanked  her  from 
his  heart.  She  lit  his  pipe  for  him,  after  she  had  made 
him  produce  it  by  asking  if  he  didn't  smoke.  After  that 
auspicious  beginning  they  talked  of  many  casual  things, 
in  a  casual  way,  getting  acquainted  with  the  shallows  of 
each  other. 

She  heard  about  McNab,  and  how  that  first  friendship 
of  Mr.  Francis's  life  had  come  to  grief;  she  heard  his 
admission  that  he  had  thought  of  her  as  perhaps  as 
likely  to  be  a  good  friend  as  McNab  might  have  been 
but  for  that  wrong  start. 

She  surprised  him  by  being  doubtful  of  this. 

"Are  men  and  women — are  a  man  and  a  woman  ever 
good  friends?"  she  asked. 

210 


Second    Youth 


"I  know  nothing  about  it;  I  only  fancied  they  might 
be,"  he  admitted. 

"  I've  seen  it  tried  a  good  many  times,  and  invariably — 
unless  one  of  them  happens  to  be  in  love  elsewhere,  and 
often  even  if  one  of  them  is — they  come  to  grief  because 
one,  or  both,  very  naturally,  want  something  more  than 
friendship.  There'd  be  something  unnatural  about  the 
persons,  I  suppose,  unless  one  of  them  did." 

He  was  emboldened  to  ask,  "Yes — and  suppose  one  of 
them  did?"  He  was  looking  at  her  Orientally  tapered, 
e"cru-colored  fingers;  he  was  no  longer  a  Complete  Mi- 
sogynist. "Or,  better,  suppose  both  of  them  did?" 

"Well — we  were  talking  of  pure  friendship."  She 
seemed  to  withdraw  a  little  from  him. 

Her  withdrawal  piqued  and  humbled  him. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said;  "you've  been  so  kind  to  me  that 
I'm  forgetting — " 

"No — please  don't  go  yet.  I  never  turn  my  guests  out 
before  eleven  o'clock,  and  it's  only  a  little  past  ten."  She 
was  plainly  sincere  in  wishing  him  to  stay.  He  was  the 
more  surprised  by  her  withdrawal;  he  had  wanted,  just 
for  a  moment,  to  examine  her  attractive  hands. 

"You  have  a  set  time  for  turning  your  guests  out?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes;  eleven  o'clock  sharp !" 

That  piqued  him  a  little,  too;  in  a  way,  he  was  being 
ordered  around.  And  he  had  a  very  meek  person's  aver- 
sion to  being  ordered  around.  Meek  persons  get  ordered 
around  so  much  that  the  process  is  likely  to.  set  up  a 
chronic  irritation. 

"But — to  go  back  a  little  way,"  he  said,  "and  to  be 
more  explicit — don't  you  think  that  we  could  be  good 

friends?" 

211 


Second    Youth 


A  mere  outsider  might  have  accused  Mr.  Francis  of 
flirting  as  he  asked  this  question.  Miss  Baumann  laughed 
at  him.  "Certainly,"  she  said;  "provided  one  or  both 
of  us  is  in  love  with  some  one  else." 

"Well,  I  am,"  he  said;  he  said  it  lightly,  expecting  to 
surprise  her,  to  repay  her  for  the  barrier  of  calm  friendli- 
ness that  she  had  erected  between  them.  He  had  admired 
her  calm  friendliness  once,  and  once  he  had  been  in  love 
with  a  certain  Adelaide  Winton.  All  that  was  long  ago. 
His  heart  was  in  a  very  full,  very  unstable  state. 

She  did  not  seem  surprised  in  the  least;  she  nodded 
gravely,  and  remarked:  "Of  course  you'd  be  in  love. 
You'll  always  be  in  love.  Just  as  you've  always  been  in 
love — in  a  way." 

Instead  of  surprising  or  repaying  her  for  anything,  he 
had  only  amused  her,  it  appeared.  She  was  hard  to  un- 
derstand. It  came  to  him,  in  a  sudden  flash  of  intuition, 
that  she  might  be  in  love  herself.  He  informed  her  of  his 
suspicion. 

"Yes — I  am,"  she  admitted.  "Hopelessly,  completely 
in  love — with  a  man  who  doesn't  care  a  snap  of  his  fingers 
about  me." 

Francis  accepted  her  confession  with  reservation.  He 
would  not  have  admitted  that  he  was  in  love  if  he  had 
really  been  in  love  when  called  upon  to  admit  it;  he  had 
only  admitted  it  a  moment  before  because,  at  that  mo- 
ment, Miss  Winton  seemed  a  long  way  off.  If  Miss 
Baumann  had  been  truly,  deeply  in  love — "hopelessly, 
completely,"  as  she  had  confessed — could  she  have  spoken 
of  it  in  that  offhand  manner? 

The  surprising  thing  about  it  was  that,  after  silently 
looking  at  her  for  a  few  minutes,  Francis  began  to  dismiss 

his   reservations.     She  had  told  him   nothing  but  the 

212 


Second    Youth 


truth.  There  was  an  ache  about  her,  an  ache  that  she 
suppressed,  but  a  hungry,  unfulfilled  ache,  nevertheless. 

"I  say — I'm  sorry.  Excuse  me  if  I  seemed  flippant," 
he  apologized. 

*  Oh,  it's  a  blessing  to  be  able  to  be  flippant  about  such 
things — at  times.  I've  been  trying  to  attain  a  little 
flippancy  about  the  matter  for  the  last  three  years — 
without  any  noticeable  success." 

Her  voice  was  small,  girlish,  a  little  forlorn,  in  spite  of 
the  brave  words.  Francis  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  that 
all  of  her  was  small.  In  some  way  she  had  given  him  an 
impression  of  considerable  size;  but  she  was  really  a  short, 
plump  little  person.  She  seemed,  at  that  moment,  almost 
as  soft  and  clinging  and  dependent  as  Miss  Barney. 

"Let's  not  be  sentimental!"  she  urged,  suddenly.  "The 
world  is  goo-ey  with  sentiment — sticky,  nasty,  goo-ey  so- 
called  love!  I  hate  it!  Please  tell  me  something  about 
your  work.  Work's  the  thing.  I'm  reading  law  in  my 
spare  time.  I  hope  to  be  admitted  to  the  Bar  next  year. 
There  '11  be  work  enough  for  me  to  do  down  on  the  East 
Side  then — and  a  kind  of  work  that  will  suit  me  better 
than  sitting  around  a  musty  library.  Tell  me  what  you're 
doing — and  what  you  hope  to  make  of  yourself." 

Francis  told  her,  with  a  stray  air,  about  his  work,  warm- 
ing to  the  subject  as  he  found  her  really  interested.  He 
asked  her  about  law,  how  much  one  had  to  read  to  be 
admitted  to  the  Bar.  He  was  suddenly  interested  in  law; 
it  might  be  a  good  idea  for  him  to  read  more  with  some 
real  aim  in  view  than  aimlessly,  as  he  had  been. 

She  caught  his  drift.  "Don't  you  bother  about  law," 
she  advised  him;  "you'd  never  make  a  lawyer.  If  you 
want  something  to  do  in  your  spare  time,  why  don't  you 
try  to  write  a  little — Sunday  sketches  for  the  newspapers, 

213 


Second    Youth 


or  something  like  that?  You've  got  a  certain  feeling  for 
words — and  you've  got  imagination,  intuition.  That  is  a 
good  start." 

They  were  still  discussing  it  when  a  tiny  gong  in  the 
room  began  to  strike  the  hour.  The  gong-sound  came 
from  a  little  mahogany  clock  on  the  imitation  mahogany 
mantel-and-bookcase  that  filled  half  of  one  wall  of  the 
room.  It  was  eleven  o'clock.  Francis  promptly  rose  to 
go. 

"I  think  I've  had  one  of  the  pleasantest,  friendliest 
evenings  in  my  life — thanks  to  you !"  he  told  her,  reaching 
down  to  take  her  hand.  "Lord!  but  I've  been  lonesome 
lately — starved,  almost,  to  talk  to  some  one  like  you!" 

He  stood  holding  her  hand,  back  to  her  door,  looking 
down  into  her  olive-clear  little  oval  face,  her  big,  black, 
slanting,  friendly  eyes.  Her  hair  was  as  black  as  mid- 
night. 

"Why — I  can  say  much  the  same  thing!"  The  grasp 
of  her  hand  was  firm  and  cool.  "I've  been  lonesome,  too; 
a  friend  lived  here  with  me  until  a  few  weeks  ago.  She 
left  to  get  married.  They're  always  getting  married! 
You  have  nice  hands!" 

Francis  was  startled,  first,  and  immensely  pleased  after- 
ward. There  had  been  perfect  coolness,  perfectly  casual 
friendliness  in  her  comment  on  his  hands;  and  yet — 

"  I've  noticed  your  hands,  been  noticing  them  for  some 
time,"  he  told  her,  calm  in  spite  of  the  rapid  quickening  of 
his  heart,  and  lifted  the  one  he  held  to  look  at  it  more 
closely.  "That  color — it's  a  perfect  ecru,  you  know — and 
the  taper  of  them — they're  odd  and  beautiful!" 

"You  do  it  very  well,"  she  said,  watching  him  with  an 
arch,  detached  interest.  "Please  go  on!"  She  might 
have  been  waiting  for  something. 

£14 


Second    Youth 


"And  they're  firm — firm  and  capable — and  so  beauti- 
fully kept!"  He  let  the  interesting  hand  lie  on  his  out- 
stretched left  palm,  while  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand 
followed  its  alluring  outlines.  Suddenly,  in  a  rush  of 
emotion  that  resembled  a  little  the  rush  that  had  over- 
powered him  that  morning  with  Miss  Barney,  he  caught 
the  hand  in  both  of  his  and  pressed  it. 

On  the  whole,  though,  he  was  getting  more  used  to  that 
emotion,  he  had  it  better  in  control.  It  was  well  tem- 
pered, in  this  case,  by  simple,  friendly  feeling,  by  abstract 
admiration  for  something  odd  and  beautiful. 

"You  can  do  that,"  asked  Miss  Baumann,  quite  as 
calm  as  if  she  had  been  made  of  olive-tinted  jade,  "even 
though  you're  in  love  with  some  one  else?" 

He  retorted,  "And  you  can  let  me  do  it — even  though 
you're  in  love  with  some  one  else?" 

"  Why  should  I  waste  all — all  that  side  of  me,  even  if  I 
am?"  she  asked,  judging  the  case  as  calmly  as  if  her  hand 
were  not  being  given  increasingly  reckless  pressures. 
"My  case  is  hopeless — the  man  doesn't  care  a  rap  for  me 
— he's  married — and  he  wouldn't  look  at  me  if  he  weren't. 
It's  a  plain  case  of  spilled  milk — quite  hopeless." 

"No  more  hopeless  than  my  own  case!" 

She  withdrew  her  hand  sharply,  abruptly.  Francis, 
looking  down  at  her  in  a  flurry  of  alarm,  saw  that  she  had 
become  tight-lipped,  contemplative,  sternly  judicial. 

"  Excuse  me.  We  need  each  other  too  much  as  friends — 
excuse  me  for  allowing — "  he  begged,  loosely,  and  got  the 
door  open  behind  him.  "  I  think  it's  time  I  went  looking 
for  my  hotel!"  he  finished,  calm  again,  looking  depressed 
and  lonely  as  the  prospect  of  being  sent  into  the  outer 
darkness  made  him  feel. 

Miss  Baumann  looked  up  at  him,  clear-eyed,  with  two 

215 


Second    Youth 


faint,  vertical  wrinkles  between  her  straight,  black  eye- 
brows. "There's  no  earthly  reason,"  she  said,  pronounc- 
ing the  words  as  if  they  constituted  part  of  an  essay  on 
common  sense,  "why  you  shouldn't  sleep  here,  on  my 
couch,  if  you'd  be  less  lonesome.  I  have  my  own  room, 
of  course.  You'd  have  to  be  up  before  seven  o'clock  in 
the  morning — but  I  suppose  you'd  have  to  be  up  that 
early,  anyway,  to  go  to  work.  I'd  be  less  lonesome  my- 
self, too.  There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  stay. 
Any  man  would  invite  a  man  friend  to  stay,  under  the 
circumstances.  Why  shouldn't  I  invite  you?  And  you'd 
be  good  company  at  breafast,  too.  Won't  you  stay?" 

Francis's  ideas  were  whirling,  whirling,  whirling,  in  a 
tremendous  vacuum.  He  was  allured,  appalled,  conscious 
of  the  perfect  propriety  of  her  reasoning,  of  the  perfect 
impropriety  of  her  proposal.  "I — I  haven't  had  time  to 
buy  myself  a  night-shirt!"  he  muttered. 

She  laughed  delightedly;  she  accepted  his  remark  as  a 
humorous  proof  of  his  common-sense  appreciation  of  the 
situation,  of  his  freedom  from  conventional  cant.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  his  remark  meant  nothing  but  that  he  was 
too  much  upset  to  know  what  he  was  saying. 

"Come  in  and  shut  the  door!"  She  was  still  admiring 
his  humor,  his  ability  to  take  the  situation  as  it  ought  to 
be  taken.  He  understood  precisely  how  she  regarded 
him,  and  within  a  minute  or  two  he  had  managed  to  reach 
a  plane  of  calmness  not  much  below  the  one  he  seemed  to 
be  expected  to  occupy.  "Of  course  you'll  have  to  be 
careful  not  to  show  yourself  at  any  of  the  windows — and 
we'll  have  to  leave  separately  in  the  morning,"  she  ex- 
plained, with  a  certain  tartness.  "Even  if  we  disregard 
conventions,  it's  better  to  keep  up  appearances.  And  as 

for  your  night-shirt — I'll  let  you  have  a  pair  of  my 

216 


Second    Youth 


pajamas!  They'll  be  big  enough  around,  I  guess,  but 
you'll  stick  out  some  at  the  ends  and  corners!" 

She  laughed  again,  a  quiet,  undisturbed  laugh  that  was 
additional  oil  upon  the  tumultuous  waves  of  Francis's 
spirit. 

"And  it  '11  be  fine  to  have  company  at  breakfast!"  she 
continued,  opening  the  door  of  her  own  room  and  disap- 
pearing in  the  gloom  inside.  "I  think  I'm  lonesomest  at 
breakfast  since  Myra  left  me  for  her  precious  Milton! 
It  doesn't  seem  to  be  taken  into  account  by  most  people 
that  a  woman  can  be  just  as  lonely,  and  in  just  the  same 
ways,  as  any  prowling  tom-cat  of  a  man !" 

15 


XIV 

VARIOUS    IMPORTANT    MATTERS    DEMAND    HIS    ATTENTION, 

BUT    HE    FINDS    HE    HAS    TAPPED    A    NEW    SOURCE    OF 

STRENGTH,    AND   MEETS   THEM   WITHOUT 

FLINCHING MUCH 

MISS  BAUMANN  allowed  him  to  help  with  the 
breakfast  in  the  morning.  He  blundered  about 
her  little  cubbyhole  of  a  kitchen,  more  at  his  ease  than  he 
had  ever  been  before  in  his  life,  it  seemed  to  him,  chatting 
about  eggs,  patent  toasters,  the  amount  of  cream  in  a 
pint  bottle  of  milk,  and  the  bad  quality  of  delicatessen 
butter.  The  kitchen  was  as  clean  as  white  paint  and 
scrubbing  could  make  it,  the  half-dozen  aluminum  pots 
and  pans  hanging  on  the  green-painted  wall,  the  blue- 
china  spice-boxes  standing  in  a  row  like  fat  soldiers — all 
the  intimacies  of  a  proper  place  for  the  preparation  of 
small  meals — delighted  him. 

"I'm  going  to  have  an  apartment  of  my  own — a  place 
something  like  yours,  where  I  can  get  my  own  break- 
fasts!" he  told  Miss  Baumann. 

"You  mustn't  talk  so  loud,  you  know,"  she  warned 
him.  "Yes,  I  think  even  a  man  might  get  along  better 
in  a  small  apartment  than  in  a  furnished  room  or  a  board- 
ing-house. You  must  let  me  help  you  select  and  furnish 
your  apartment  when  you  get  it.  There  are  some  nice 

ones  in  this  neighborhood." 

218 


Second    Youth 


His  pleasure  was  a  little  dampened  by  the  warning; 
on  the  one  occasion,  since  the  night  before,  when  he  had 
fully  lost  consciousness  of  doing  something  slightly  under- 
handed, he  had  evoked  a  protest.  He  was  under  a  strain; 
for  his  lonesomeness  he  had  exchanged  numerous  other 
strains.  He  had  been  a  confirmed  bachelor  for  so  long 
that  even  the  idea  of  another  person  sleeping  near  him 
would  have  kept  him  awake.  He  continued  to  be  chatty, 
impersonal,  really  interested  in  things;  but  down  under- 
neath he  was  waiting,  wishing  for  the  time  when  he  could 
escape. 

A  large  cockroach  created  a  diversion  at  the  breakfast 
table  by  appearing  unexpectedly  beside  Miss  Baumann's 
coft'ee-cup. 

"Don't  frighten  him — that's  'Bill'!"  she  explained,  as 
Mr.  Francis  started  in  confusion  and  slight  horror;  the 
numerous  cockroaches  in  the  Benson  dining-room  were 
not  greeted  with  less  surprise  and  summary  measures  be- 
cause of  their  familiarity.  "He's  the  only  one  on  the 
place,  and  I've  let  him  live  because  he's  old  and  fat 
and  never  leaves  his  crack  in  the  table  except  at  meal- 
times. He's  probably  an  old  bachelor  cockroach,  spend- 
ing the  last  days  of  his  life  without  any  wicked  thoughts  of 
the  ladies,  or  of  increasing  and  multiplying,  so  he's  no 
danger  to  the  community.  Quite  human  in  certain  char- 
acteristics, isn't  he?" 

She  put  down  a  bit  of  buttered  toast  beside  "Bill";  he 
mounted  thereon  and  forgot  the  problems  of  his  bachelor 
existence. 

"He  must  be  good  company,"  Mr.  Francis  assured  her, 
but  it  was  a  strain  on  him  to  say  it.  Suppose,  he  was 
thinking,  he  was  permanently  married  to  Miss  Baumann, 

and  she  insisted  on  having  cockroaches  at  the  table? 

219 


Second    Youth 


There  were  certain  great  strains  connected  with  perma- 
nently married  life,  he  suspected,  just  as  there  were  with  a 
bachelor  existence.  At  least,  he  was  pretty  well  used  to 
the  strains  of  bachelordom;  there  was  a  certain  fable 
about  the  frying-pan  and  the  fire  which  did  not  fail 
to  appeal  to  his  conservative  temperament.  He  was  glad 
when  the  time  came  to  go.  "I'm  sorry,  no  end,  I  have 
to  go!"  he  said.  "You  don't  know  what — what  an  ex- 
perience this  has  been  to  me!  Nothing  in  my  whole 
life—" 

"Oh,  forget  it— forget  it!"  she  interrupted.  "Why 
must  you  men  feel  that  you've  been  so  much  obliged  when 
a  woman's  been  good  to  you?  It's  fulfilling  her  nature  to 
give,  just  as  it  fulfils  his  to  receive — the  honors  are  even. 
There  is  a  lot  of  tommy-rot  about  what  men  owe  to 
women !" 

"Well,  of  course,  if  you  feel  that  way  about  it,  I'll 
say  no  more!"  He  laughed  and  held  out  his  hand. 
It  struck  him  suddenly  that  they  understood  each 
other.  There  had  been  elements  of  peace  and  strain 
in  it  for  both  of  them.  He  felt  no  more  relief  at  the 
prospect  of  going  than  she  felt  at  the  prospect  of 
having  him  go.  For  some  reason  this  idea  piqued 
him;  it  seemed  to  him  that  she,  at  least,  should  be 
filled  with  regret. 

"And  when  may  I  come  again?"  he  asked,  with  his 
hand  on  the  door-knob  behind  him.  They  had  shaken 
hands  with  entire  carelessness  and  propriety. 

"You're  sure  that — considering  your  devotion  to  your 
ideal — you  want  to  come  again?" 

He  had  told  her  all  about  Miss  Winton,  the  whole  de- 
tailed story,  and  she  had  agreed  with  him  that  Miss 

Winton  was  no  longer  a  part  of  his  life,  that  the  best 

220 


Second    Youth 


thing  he  could  do  was  to  forget  her  altogether.  The 
reference  to  his  "ideal,"  therefore,  smacked  of  plain 
teasing. 

"You  know  I  want  to  come  again."  He  was  deeply 
serious;  he  felt  that  he  owed  it  her  to  want  to  come  again 
and,  in  good  measure,  he  really  wanted  to  come  again. 
"You'll  be  at  the  library  till  closing  hour  on  Thursday, 
won't  you?  Perhaps  you'll  let  me  drop  in  then — and  we 
might  go  somewhere?" 

"No — I'll  have  to  bone  law  pretty  hard  all  the  rest  of 
the  week — to  make  up."  She  considered  the  matter. 
"Suppose  you  drop  in  Saturday  evening — if  you  care  to? 
You  know — I  don't  want  you  to  feel  that  you  have  to 
drop  in!" 

"Oh,  you  know  how  much — "  he  began. 

"That  will  keep  you  from  any  danger  of  being  married 
or  going  to  Coney  with  a  rapacious  female!"  she 
interrupted,  laughing.  He  had  told  her  about  Miss 
Barney,  also;  she  had  a  fairly  complete  history  of  one 
side  of  him  at  her  finger-ends. 

He  smiled  acquiescence,  murmured,  "Saturday  even- 
ing, then!"  in  a  guarded  voice  as  he  got  the  door  open,  and 
slipped  out  into  the  gloomy  corridor  of  the  building. 
The  air  was  heavy,  musty.  He  breathed  deep  when  he 
came  out  into  the  morning  sunshine  and  freshness  of 
Washington  Square. 

He  would  have  to  go  to  a  barber-shop  and  get  a  shave, 
he  told  himself,  before  he  went  to  work.  His  razor  and 
other  needfuls  were  interned  in  Mrs.  Benson's  boarding- 
house.  He  would  look  up  a  furnished  room  after  work, 
and  have  an  expressman  go  for  them. 

After  pausing  to  light  his  pipe  he  went  on,  swinging  his 

cane,   along  Washington  Square  North,   to  Broadway. 

221 


Second    Youth 


Matters  looked  simpler  to  him  than  they  had  for  quite  a 
number  of  days. 

That  evening,  the  evening  of  Wednesday,  June  28th,  he 
wrote  in  the  book: 


While  I'm  waiting  for  the  expressman  to  bring  my 
things  I'll  occupy  my  spare  time  scrawling  in  this  old 
Journal.  I  have  been  looking  over  it.  There  is  a  good 
deal  that  is  naive,  if  not  downright  foolish,  in  it.  But 
still,  if  a  man  writes  what  he  feels,  and  is  the  sort  of  man 
I've  been,  the  result  is  likely  to  seem  naive  and  foolish. 

This  furnished  room  will  do  me  until  I  can  look  up  a 
small  apartment  more  to  my  taste.  I  have  to  thank  Miss 
Baumann  for  that  idea.  I  have  to  thank  her  for  more 
ideas  than  ever  came  to  me  from  any  other  source,  for  a 
new  feeling  of  independence.  She  has  shown  me  that  a 
man  need  not  be  flurried  by  things  if  he  looks  the  world 
and  the  facts  of  life  in  the  face  as  she  does.  However,  I'll 
write  no  more  about  her  here.  What  is  a  part  of  my 
deepest  life,  what  I  can  perfectly  well  remember,  anyway, 
I  need  not  mention  here. 

For  one  thing,  I  have  been  too  deadly  serious  about 
everything.  There  is  a  golden  mean  between  being  too 
deadly  serious  and  taking  things  too  lightly.  I've  read 
that  time  and  again,  but  a  little  actual  experience  has 
taught  me  more  than  all  of  Spencer.  That  isn't  true,  of 
course,  but  a  man  needs  practical  experience  to  balance 
what  he  reads  or  the  result  is  likely  to  be  deplorable. 

You  are  a  fairly  punk  philosopher,  Francis,  old  horse. 
Still,  it  does  me  good  to  write  this  stuff  here.  It  is  better 

than  trying  to  think  it  without  writing  it.     When  I  have 

222 


Second    Youth 


written  a  thing  down  it  gets  a  certain  exactness;  I  seem 
to  be  able  to  grasp  it  better  than  when  I  merely  think  it. 
I  suppose  this  is  the  result  of  my  having  used  this  method 
of  thinking  for  so  long. 


Half  an  hour  later,  at  eight  o'clock,  he  wrote: 

A  nice  kettle  of  fish.  The  expressman  couldn't  get  my 
things.  Mrs.  Benson  tried  to  get  my  address  from  him, 
but  I  had  warned  him,  and  he  refused.  I  gave  him  a 
dollar  for  his  faithfulness.  She  said  she  would  give  him  a 
dollar  to  tell  her  where  I  lived,  which  he  refused,  so  I 
could  do  no  less  than  make  up  the  loss  to  him.  A  dollar 
for  his  trouble,  a  dollar  for  his  silence,  and  I  am  no  better 
off  than  I  was  before.  She  wouldn't  let  him  take  my 
things ;  she  said  she  would  call  a  policeman  if  he  set  foot 
in  the  house.  However,  she  had  no  hesitation  in  keeping 
the  ten  dollars  I  inclosed  in  the  note  I  sent  to  her  by  him, 
telling  her  of  my  determination  to  move,  and  offering  to 
reimburse  her  for  her  trouble  in  getting  my  things  together. 

I  can  get  a  new  outfit,  of  course,  but  a  man  gets  used 
to  some  of  the  things  he  has  had  by  him  for  ten  or  fifteen 
years.  Still,  it's  cheap  at  the  price,  I  suppose.  I  may 
have  deserved  worse  than  I  got,  and  I'm  ready  to  call  it 
even  if  she  is.  I'll  call  it  all  an  investment  in  the  danger 
of  tampering  with  a  woman's  affections. 

Guess  I'll  turn  in  now.  I'm  tired  out,  and  that's  the 
truth. 


At  ten  o'clock  on  the  same  night  Francis  wrote  in  the 

book: 

$23 


Second    Youth 


Well,  here  I  am  in  a  hotel  room,  and  safe,  I  hope,  for 
the  present. 

The  expressman  evidently  deceived  me.  Mrs.  Benson 
appeared  at  my  door  just  as  I  was  retiring.  He  gave 
her  my  address.  Two  dollars  from  me  and  one  from  her 
should  repay  him  for  his  evening's  labors. 

Fortunately  I  had  my  door  locked,  but  I  had  the  bad 
taste  to  call  out,  "Who's  there?"  after  she  had  tried  to 
open  it.  She  told  me,  in  a  low  voice,  that  a  woman,  de- 
serted and  with  a  broken  heart,  was  there.  I  begged  her 
to  go  away. 

She  said,  "Never!"  and  it  sounded  as  if  she  meant  it. 

I  told  her  that  I  would  get  up,  if  she  would  wait  for  me 
somewhere  outside,  and  we  could  talk  the  matter  over 
without  disturbing  other  people.  She  said  she  would 
not  go  out  unless  I  went  out  with  her,  right  away.  I  said 
I'd  have  to  get  my  clothes  on  first,  and  begged  her  to  wait 
quietly  till  I  did  so. 

"You  never  go  to  bed  as  early  as  this — you  deceiver!" 
she  said;  and  added  other  compliments  in  a  loud  voice. 
I  got  up  as  fast  as  I  could.  In  the  mean  time  my  new 
landlady  had  come  up. 

I  heard  Mrs.  Benson  explaining  about  me  while  I 
dressed.  My  new  landlady  kept  insisting  that  Mrs. 
Benson  go  at  once  and  have  recourse  to  the  law  instead 
of  giving  her  house  a  bad  reputation.  I  said  nothing 
whatever.  I  admired  the  calm  determination  of  my  new 
landlady  and  let  her  handle  it.  At  the  same  time,  I  was 
terribly  disturbed.  Mrs.  Benson  had  a  certain  amount  of 
right  on  her  side,  when  she  kept  crying  out  that  no  man 
had  a  right  to  break  a  woman's  heart  and  go  on  his  way 
rejoicing.  Still,  even  if  I  married  Mrs.  Benson,  I  don't 
see  but  that  matters  would  be  infinitely  worse.  I  refuse 


Second    Youth 


to  lose  my  head  over  this  matter,  although  I  probably 
should  have  done  so  and  agreed  to  stand  by  my  engage- 
ment if  it  hadn't  been  for  Miss  Baumann.  Miss  Baumann 
has  given  me  a  new  outlook  on  life.  I  am  not  more  heart- 
less, but  I  hope  I  have  more  common  sense.  Especially 
about  women. 

At  length  my  new  landlady  persuaded  Mrs.  Benson  to 
go,  and  Mrs.  Benson  went,  saying  that  she'd  consult  a 
lawyer  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 

I  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  If  it  comes  to  a  matter  of 
law  it  can  probably  be  settled  with  money.  I  hadn't 
thought  before  of  offering  Mrs.  Benson  money.  Perhaps 
this  is  a  proper  solution,  money  and  matrimony  seem  to 
be  mixed  up  a  good  deal. 

Being  fully  dressed  by  the  time  Mrs.  Benson  left,  I 
thought  it  might  be  a  good  thing  for  me  to  go  down-stairs 
and  thank  my  new  landlady  for  her  interference  in  my 
behalf.  My  new  landlady  came  up  to  my  room  while  I 
was  getting  myself  together. 

Her  name  is  Miss  Brown,  and  she  reminds  me  somewhat 
of  Mrs.  Benson,  although  she  is  primmer  and  less  portly, 
nor  has  she  so  much  sense  of  humor,  I  suspect. 

Miss  Brown,  when  I  at  once  unlocked  my  door  and  let 
her  in,  had  in  her  hand  the  four  dollars  I  had  paid  her  a 
few  hours  before  for  a  week's  rent  in  advance.  She  said 
I  must  leave  in  the  morning;  if  it  wasn't  illegal  she'd  make 
me  leave  without  a  moment's  delay.  She  said,  "I  know 
your  kind;  you're  worse  than  the  white-slavers  the  papers 
tell  about." 

I  told  her  I  hoped  that  it  was  not  so  bad  as  that,  and 
that  I  would  leave  at  once.  She  replied,  "  Not  before  I've 
given  you  a  piece  of  my  mind."  She  said  that,  as  soon  as 

she  laid  eyes  on  me,  she  knew  I  was  too  dolled-up  and 

225 


Second    Youth 


good-looking  to  trust.  I  was  one  of  those  handsome 
heart-breakers  who  went  around  wrecking  women's  lives 
for  sport. 

I  started  down  the  stairs,  but  she  continued,  walking 
after  me,  to  tell  me  that  she  never  trusted  handsome 
men,  they  had  too  much  opportunity  to  do  what  all  men 
were  anxious  to  and  it  was  all  she  could  do  to  keep  from 
slapping  my  face,  but  she  wouldn't  demean  herself  by 
touching  such  dudish  dirt  as  I  was. 

I  stopped  in  the  front  hall  and  tried  to  soothe  her,  to 
explain  that  everything,  even  the  engagement,  had  been 
entirely  an  accident. 

"Don't  think  you  can  put  over  anything  on  me,"  she 
said,  "standing  there  looking  calm  and  handsome!  It 
takes  more  than  clothes  and  a  pretty  face  to  make  a  man, 
you  spineless  rabbit!  If  you  had  some  character  instead 
of  your  pretty  little  pink  mo.uth  and  smooth  complexion 
you'd  do  better — you  piker,  you  cheap  dude,  you  clothing- 
store  dummy!" 

Well,  women  are  peculiar — I  had  not  imagined  that  one 
could  talk  more  strenuously  than  Mrs.  Benson,  but  Miss 
Brown  did  it.  It  may  have  been  because  she  was  a 
spinster  and  had  had  less  knowledge  of  life.  If  she  had 
seen  more  of  life,  of  things  as  they  go  between  men  and 
women,  she  might  not  have  thought  I  was  so  infernally 
bad.  It  was  news  to  hear,  too,  that  I  looked  like  a  dude, 
and  that  I  was  pretty,  handsome,  etc.  Possibly  her 
spinster  observation  is  not  any  more  correct  there  than 
in  some  other  matters. 

I  suppose  I  ought  to  turn  in,  it's  nearly  midnight,  but 
I'm  due  for  another  sleepless  night,  I  fear.  Still,  I  can 
meet  matters  more  steadily  than  I  could  before  I  had 

talked  with  Miss  Baumann. 

226 


Second    Youth 


A  trying  day  at  the  store,  too.  Miss  Barney,  it  seems, 
is  not  going  to  take  any  notice  of  me  whatever.  Mr. 
Remmick  was  again  absent  to-day,  and  when  I  said, 
"Good  morning,  Miss  Barney,"  as  usual,  she  made  no 
reply,  nor  did  she  turn  around  to  look  at  me  as  usual. 

As  I  had  decided  to,  I  said:  "I  wish,  most  humbly  and 
deferentially,  to  apologize  to  you,  Miss  Barney,  for  what 
happened  yesterday.  I  was  taken  off  my  guard.  Your 
beauty,  your  sudden  nearness,  made  me  lose  my  head. 
I  ask,  I  beg,  that  you  will  forget  and  forgive  it." 

It  was  a  high-flown  speech,  but  I  thought  it  might 
go  better  than  if  I  merely  said  I  was  sorry.  Miss  Barney 
took  absolutely  no  notice  of  it. 

I  hate  a  person  who  grumps.  Lord!  why  not  talk, 
tell  your  troubles,  have  it  out!  There  she  sat,  without  a 
word,  grumping,  grumping.  A  mud  fence  can  keep  its 
mouth  shut.  I  went  back  into  the  department.  If  a 
person  simply  refuses  to  talk,  nothing  more  can  be  done. 

Well,  I'll  turn  in  and  try  to  sleep.  Now  that  I  have 
written  these  matters  down,  they  seem  clearer.  I  guess 
I'll  come  out  all  right. 

Remembered  to-day  I've  never  made  that  dinner  call 
at  the  Remmicks'.  This  positively  must  be  attended  to. 
I  wonder  if  I  shall  see  Helen  Remmick  again?  I  hope  not 
— I  do  not  care  to  see  any  more  people  for  the  present, 
especially  of  the  gentler  sex. 

Except  Miss  Baumann.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  her 
and  have  a  talk  with  her  Saturday  night.  But  things 
must  never  again  go  as  far  as  they  did  last  night.  She 
may  feel  that  it  is  all  right;  I  cannot.  I  suspect  that, 
at  bottom,  she  did  not  feel  that  it  was  right,  either. 
I  am  increasingly  sorry  for  what  occurred.  I  would  hesi- 
tate less  in  wishing  to  see  her  if  it  hadn't. 

227 


Second    Y outh 


Expected  Mrs.  Benson  in  to-day  at  the  department, 
but  she  did  not  appear,  and  I  had  numerous  methods  of 
retreat  planned  out  ahead  if  she  had.  She  made  up  for 
it  this  evening,  however. 

I  think  I  shall  come  through  all  right,  but  I  am  having 
a  great  lesson. 

Note: — Must  positively  call  on  Remmicks.  Perhaps 
to-morrow  evening.  I  must  speak  to  Mr.  Remmick  to 
ask  permission  if  he  comes  to  the  store  to-morrow,  as 
he  certainly  will  do.  He  is  never  absent  more  than  two 
days  at  a  time. 


The  next  evening,  the  evening  of  Thursday,  June  29th, 
he  wrote: 

Mr.  Remmick  was  in  to-day,  but  he  came  in  late,  and 
another  man  was  with  him,  and  they  went  out  together 
shortly  afterward,  so  I  did  not  have  a  chance  to  ask  him 
about  that  dinner  call. 

He  introduced  me  to  the  man  who  was  with  him,  Mr. 
Gladden,  and  Gladden  talked  to  me  for  some  minutes 
about  the  silk  business.  Unfortunately  I  had  not  read 
the  last  issue  of  the  Silk  Journal  any  too  well,  so  I  was  not 
up  much  on  the  state  of  the  market  except  in  a  general 
way.  I  have  been  too  busy  with  other  matters  lately 
to  keep  much  on  the  job.  However,  I  knew  the  back 
markets,  and  he  said  he  was  more  interested  in  stocking, 
anyway.  He  began  to  ask  me  about  the  stock  we  car- 
ried, and  what  I  thought  about  it. 

Mr.  Remmick  had  strolled  away  through  the  department 
by  this  time.  I  asked  Mr.  Gladden  to  excuse  me  for  just  a 

moment,  I'd  thought  of  a  matter  on  which  I  wanted  to 

228 


Second    Youth 


consult  my  superior.  I  caught  up  with  Mr.  Remmick, 
and  asked  him  if  it  would  be  all  right  if  I  talked  about  our 
stock  to  Mr.  Gladden. 

Mr.  Remmick  replied,  "Sure — tell  him  all  you're  a  mind 
to;  and,  for  your  own  sake,  mind  your  p's  and  q's." 

I  went  back  to  Mr.  Gladden,  convinced  that  he  was  a 
person  of  some  importance,  perhaps  a  new  member  of  the 
merchandise  staff  whom  I  had  not  yet  met,  and  the 
more  I  talked  with  him  the  more  he  impressed  me.  He 
began  by  saying,  "You  asked  Remmick  whether  you 
could  discuss  your  stock  with  me,  didn't  you?"  I  was 
so  startled  I  at  once  admitted  it;  besides,  he  seemed 
rather  cocksure,  even  for  a  McDavitt  merchandise  man, 
and  some  of  them  are  the  extreme  limit. 

"Good  head!"  he  said,  and  laughed;  and  then  he  got 
right  down  to  business,  and  if  there  had  been  anything 
I  hadn't  known  about  our  stock  he'd  have  found  it  out. 
Lucidly  I  was  pretty  well  up,  what  with  doing  Mr. 
Prince's  work  for  several  months  before  being  actually 
appointed  to  his  position. 

Then  Mr.  Gladden  asked  me  if  I'd  make  any  changes  in 
the  stock  if  I  were  at  the  head  of  the  department.  For 
a  moment  I  had  an  idea  that  Mr.  Remmick  was  about  to 
resign,  that  I  was  about  to  be  offered  the  position  of  head 
silk-buyer  for  McDavitt's.  I  could  hardly  reply  to  his 
question. 

"Cheer  up!  Cheer  up!  Remmick  isn't  going  to  give 
you  any  chance  to  step  into  his  shoes  for  twenty  years 
yet!"  said  Mr.  Gladden.  The  way  he  read  my  thoughts 
was  remarkable.  He  is  an  oldish,  stoop-shouldered  man, 
with  a  drooping  white  mustache,  sharp  blue  eyes,  and  he 
has  a  tongue.  "I'm  just  getting  some  information.  Go 
ahead — loosen  up.  What  changes  would  you  make?" 

229 


Second    Youth 


"I  think  Mr.  Remmick's  ideas  need  little  changing," 
I  told  him.  I  was  put  out  by  his  manner,  and  I  preserved 
my  dignity.  "I  would,  perhaps,  devote  a  special  section 
to  the  new  silks,  instead  of  classifying  them  by  colors  with 
the  older  stand-bys.  I  would  also  decrease  the  stock  of 
blacks — there  is  not  so  much  demand  for  blacks  as 
formerly.  But,  in  general,  I  think  Mr.  Remmick  has 
precisely  the  proper  ideas  as  to  the  conduct  of  a  modern 
silk  department." 

He  said,  "I  do,  too,"  and  left  me  standing  there  feeling 
cheap.  He  was  very  abrupt,  very  peculiar,  but  he  seemed 
to  know  what  he  was  talking  about. 

Presently  he  and  Mr.  Remmick  came  through  the  de- 
partment again,  on  their  way  out  together.  I  was  shak- 
ing up  one  of  the  displays  a  trifle.  I  have  been  neglecting 
the  displays  lately,  and  my  talk  with  Gladden  had  shown 
me  how  slack  I  was  getting  in  business  ways.  Mr.  Glad- 
den left  Mr.  Remmick  a  moment  and  came  over  to  where 
I  was  working.  I  watched  him  out  of  one  corner  of  my 
eye. 

"You  do  all  the  displays?"  he  asked. 

I  said,  "Everything  but  dress  the  show-window." 

"Married,  single,  or  engaged?"  he  asked,  at  once,  with- 
out giving  me  time  to  think. 

I  tried  not  to  be  flustered.  I  wanted  to  tell  him  it  was 
none  of  his  business,  but  there  was  something  compelling 
about  him. 

"Neither,"  I  said;  and  he  went  away  laughing.  He 
was  right.  "Neither"  is  no  proper  answer  to  a  ques- 
tion as  to  whether  a  man  is  "married,  single,  or  en- 
gaged," but  I  was  somewhat  upset.  All  the  time  I 
was  talking  to  him  I  couldn't  keep  from  wondering  what 
I  should  do  if  Mrs.  Benson  unexpectedly  appeared, 

230 


Second    Youth 


coming  in  our  direction.  I  fear  I  made  a  poor  im- 
pression. In  fact,  I  am  sure  of  it. 

Later  in  the  day  I  met  Mr.  Remmick  by  chance  as  he 
returned  to  the  office  for  something,  but  he  was  in  a  great 
hurry.  Otherwise  I  would  have  asked  him  more  about 
Mr.  Gladden.  The  more  I  think  of  it  the  more  I  wonder 
I  stood  for  what  I  did  stand  for  from  him.  I  wonder  if  he 
may  be  connected  with  some  other  local  store,  and  is  think- 
ing of  offering  me  a  place  as  assistant  buyer?  Or  perhaps 
buyer?  I  sha'n't  worry  about  it.  It  would  take  a  good 
deal  to  move  me  from  McDavitt's.  When  I  leave 
McDavitt's  I'll  be  a  changed  man. 

Miss  Barney  again  refused  to  answer  my  morning 
greeting  this  morning.  She  worries  me,  and  that's  the 
truth.  She  gave  me  one  glance  when  I  spoke  to  her 
this  morning.  It  suggested  that  she  had  not  forgiven 
me.  Well,  I  don't  deserve  to  be  readily  forgiven.  It  was 
a  bad  mistake.  I  must  try  to  think  of  something  to  do 
to  put  her  in  a  better  humor. 

It  worries  me  to  see  her  grumping  all  the  time,  and  be 
constantly  reminded  that  I  am  the  subject  of  her  grumps. 
People  can  convince  themselves  of  anything  by  grumping 
about  it  enough,  according  to  Wm.  James  Psychology. 
If  she'd  only  talk,  or  even  denounce  me  as  I  have  been 
denounced  by  two  other  women  lately,  I  should  feel 
better,  more  safe,  at  least.  However,  if  she  is  deter- 
mined to  denounce  me,  I  hope  she  does  not.  start  it 
when  Mr.  Remmick  is  around.  I  trust  she  will  prove 
too  ladylike  to  start  anything  scandalous  like  this.  I 
wonder  if  money  would  help  there  to  salve  her  injured 
feelings?  I  have  not  heard  from  Mrs.  Benson,  either. 
Strange  to  relate. 

Shall  continue  to  rent  this  hotel  room  for  present. 

231 


Second    Youth 


Sunday  shall  look  for  an  apartment.     Not  in  the  Washing- 
ton Square  neighborhood,  perhaps. 

Hardly  think  I  shall  see  Miss  Baumann  on  Saturday 
evening,  as  I  hoped  to.  She  will  not  mind,  I  am  sure. 
She  feels  about  me  much  the  same  as  I  feel  about  her — 
with  entire  respect,  and  yet  with  a  certain  uncomfortable- 
ness.  I  fear  that  friendship,  also,  has  been  spoiled. 
Friendship  is  a  very  delicate  thing,  and  that's  the  truth. 
If  we  really  could  love  each  other  it  would  be  entirely 
different.  We  could  not  even  pretend  we  loved  each 
other,  and  we  never  could. 


Friday  morning  opened  auspiciously  for  Mr.  Francis. 
Miss  Barney  returned  his  greeting  with,  "Good  morning, 
Mr.  Francis!"  She  did  not  look  around;  she  spoke  with  a 
sphinx-like  reserve  in  her  voice,  and  yet  she  had  spoken. 
It  is  something  for  a  sphinx  to  speak,  even  if  it  speaks  like 
a  sphinx.  Not  all  the  questions  that  Miss  Barney  repre- 
sented to  Francis  were  answered  by  her  "Good  morning," 
but  at  least  it  was  an  indication  of  progress  in  the  right 
direction. 

He  strolled  out  into  his  own  department,  pardonably 
lifted  up  in  spirit  because  of  Miss  Barney's  more  intelligi- 
ble behavior,  and  ran  into  Whiggam. 

"Why,  hello,  o'  man!"  he  said,  gripping  Whiggam's 
large,  hairy  hand.  He  was  genuinely  pleased  to  see  Whig- 
gam.  "Your  cheerful  face  is  a  sight  for  sore  eyes!  How 
are  you,  anyway?" 

"Fine — and  mighty  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  fine  and 
dandy!"  said  Whiggam.  He  pushed  back  his  Panama 
hat  and  mopped  his  broad,  ruddy  forehead  with  a  white- 
silk  handkerchief  edged  with  blue.  He  was  very  broad 

232 


Second    Youth 


and  shiny.  Even  his  broad  shoes  were  shining  like  twin 
mirrors  with  a  recent  polish. 

"I  say — you're  improved  since  you  left  us!"  Whiggam 
went  on,  beaming  genial  admiration.  "If  it  does  you 
that  much  good  to  change  your  boarding-house,  you 
might  tell  a  fellow  where  you've  gone!" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  the  changed  boarding-house,  I  guess," 
said  Francis.  He  had  never  cared  for  Whiggam,  but  now, 
for  some  reason,  he  seemed  to  like  Whiggam  first  rate. 
A  few  weeks  had  softened  his  attitude  toward  many  of  the 
commoner  facts  of  life,  in  which  category  Whiggam  un- 
doubtedly belonged.  "  Would  you  care  to  come  up  to  the 
receiving  and  stock  rooms  with  me?"  he  asked  Whiggam. 
"  I'm  just  on  my  way  there.  Maybe  you'd  be  interested 
in  seeing  it,  if  you've  never  been  in  such  a  place?" 

"Thanks  —  you're  awfully  kind."  Again  Whiggam 
mopped  his  forehead.  On  returning  the  handkerchief  to 
his  pocket  he  pursed  his  lips  outward  in  the  way  that 
made  him  resemble  a  gorilla,  and  scowled;  he  was  a 
friendly  gorilla,  it  appeared,  but  still  a  gorilla  with  some- 
thing on  its  mind. 

Francis  remembered  sundry  five-dollar  bills  requested, 
received,  and  never  returned.  Such  was  the  state  of  his 
spirits  that  his  hand  went  into  his  pocket  almost  in- 
voluntarily. 

Whiggam  announced:  "To  come  right  to  the  point — I 
dropped  in  to  see  you  about  Mrs.  Benson.  In  fact,  Mrs. 
Benson  sent  me." 

Francis's  hand  came  out  of  his  pocket. 

Whiggam  continued,  removing  his  scowl  in  favor  of  a 
grin:  "Now  don't  look  scared!  I  guess  little  Whiggie  has 
got  everything  fixed  pretty  well!  Why,  you  know,  she 

was  all  for  putting  it  right  into  the  hands  of  a  lawyer — 
16  233 


Second    Youth 


and  the  darned  sharper  would  have  skinned  both  of  you 
alive !"  Whiggam  told  him,  confidentially.  "  I  had  a  hard 
time  getting  her  to  leave  it  to  me.  I  guess  you  remem- 
ber she's  a  woman  of  some  spirit?" 

Francis  nodded;   he  hadn't  forgotten  that. 

"Well,  now,  I  just  thought  you  and  I  could  get  to- 
gether and  settle  it — to  the  benefit  of  all  concerned.  Are 
you  agreeable?" 

Francis  said  that  he  was,  but  he  looked  dubious. 

"Don't  think  I  want  to  do  you — please  don't  think 
that,  will  you,  now?"  begged  Whiggam,  scowling  sincere 
deprecation  of  Francis's  air.  "I  want  to  do  the  right 
thing,  that's  all.  I  want  to  save  you  both  trouble 
if  I  can.  Now,  she  told  me  to  hang  out  for  a  thousand 
dollars,  and  not  take  a  cent  less.  Nothing  like  coming 
right  to  the  point.  I  think  she'd  be  tickled  to  death 
to  get  half  of  that. 

"  Now,  she  gave  me  a  paper  to  give  you,  all  signed  and 
witnessed  before  a  notary  public,"  Whiggam  went  on, 
drawing  the  specified  paper  in  a  red-sealed  envelope  from 
his  pocket.  "It  says,  in  consideration  of  a  thousand 
dollars  she  agrees  to  release  you  from  all  responsibility 
in  a  breach-of-promise  case.  That  was  my  idea.  I 
wanted  it  all  settled,  right  and  proper,  so  there  couldn't 
be  any  back  talk,  you  understand.  I  tried  to  get  her  to 
put  in  five  hundred  dollars  instead  of  a  thousand,  but 
she  said  I  could  write  it  in  later  if  that  was  all  you'd  give. 
Here — want  to  look  it  over?" 

Francis  accepted  the  paper  and  looked  it  over  with 
asperity  and  profound  ignorance  of  such  matters. 

Whiggam  commented:  "I  know  a  little  law.  I  think 
the  paper'll  stand.  And  excuse  me  if  I  say  also,  Mr. 

Francis,  that  I'm  afraid  you  got  yourself  into  a  serious 

234 


Second    Y outh 


situation  there.  You  acknowledged  the  engagement  be- 
fore witnesses.  If  she  had  a  mind  to  she  could  make  it 
uncomfortable  for  you.  And  she  knows  it,  too;  she  got  to 
a  lawyer  and  found  out  about  where  she  stood  before  she 
let  me  in  on  what  was  doing.  The  lawyer's  one  of  those 
cheap  shysters  that  have  got  offices  down  opposite 
Jefferson  Market  Court,  and  he's  crazy  to  take  her  case. 
He  says  he  can  get  everything  you've  got  up  to  five 
thousand  dollars.  But  I  convinced  her  by  the  time  he 
was  through  with  her  she  wouldn't  have  five  hundred 
dollars.  Now,  say,  don't  I  talk  straight  to  you  when  I 
offer  to  fix  it  for  five  hundred  dollars?  Just  to  make 
sure,  I  wish  you'd  consult  a  lawyer  on  your  own  hook, 
and  then  see  if  you  don't  come  back  and  say,  'Whiggie, 
put  'er  there!'" 

Francis  hesitated  only  long  enough  to  give  his  ac- 
ceptance an  air  of  thoughtfulness,  of  proper  dignity. 
"I'll  do  it,  Whiggam,"  he  said.  "I  take  your  word  for  it. 
I  hope  nothing  I've  said  has  made  you  think  I  doubted 
anything  you  said?" 

"Thank  you,  o'  man — thank  you!"  Whiggam  was 
genuinely  move^d.  "Just  for  good  measure,  o'  man,  you 
write  in  four  hundred  and  eighty-five  dollars  instead  of 
five  hundred  dollars,  and  I'll  see  it  goes  through  with 
Big  B.  It  was  three  of  those  fives  I  borrowed  from  you 
and  forgot  to  return,  wasn't  it?" 

Francis,  in  the  act  of  getting  out  his  fountain-pen, 
laughed  outright.  It  was  a  Whiggie-esque  idea,  that  of 
paying  his  debts  by  transferring  them  from  one  person  to 
another.  "Five  hundred  will  be  all  right!"  he  declared, 
with  amazing  lightness  of  heart,  considering  the  circum- 
stances. "We'll  forget  the  three  fives,  I'm  glad  if  they 

were  any  use  to  you." 

235 


Second    Youth 


"You're  a  gentleman — you've  got  the  real  spirit.  Of 
course  you'll  be  coming  to  the  wedding?" 

Francis  was  busy  changing  the  figures.     "Wedding?" 

"Sure.  Mine  and  Big  B's.  We're  getting  hitched  to- 
morrow night.  She  said  she'd  invited  you.  Yes,  sir — 
this  is  Whiggie's  weddin'-suit.  How  d'you  like  it?" 

He  posed,  spreading  out  both  arms  so  that  Mr.  Francis 
could  appreciate  the  black,  green-striped  new  suit  that 
had  helped  to  give  him  such  a  broad,  gleaming  appearance. 

Francis,  bent  down  over  the  counter  on  which  he  was 
preparing  to  write,  supported  himself  on  one  hand, 
craned  his  neck  around  one  shoulder,  and  turned  blank, 
then  horrified,  then  dumfounded  eyes  on  the  wedding- 
suit.  His  position  was  contorted  and  insecure.  As  if 
under  the  influence  of  increasingly  violent  seismic  vibra- 
tions, he  swayed  and  sat  down  on  the  floor.  With  his  long 
legs  straight  before  him,  his  long  toes  turned  straight  up, 
his  arms  straight  down  to  the  floor  on  either  side,  he 
looked  like  a  large,  jointed,  wooden  doll.  Not  the  least 
wooden  part  of  him  was  the  expression  on  his  face. 

"Come  up,  man,  come  up!"  Whiggam,  instantly  alert, 
alarmed,  tugged  at  his  shoulders.  "Lord!  I  never 
thought !  Of  course  it  'd  be  a  shock  to  you — but  I 
thought  you  knew.  I  thought  Big  B —  There,  now, 
just  sit  down  on  that  little  stool!  You're  a'  right,  o'  man, 
perfectly  a*  right!"  Whiggam  fussed  around  him  like  a 
hen  over  its  sole  sickly  chicken. 

"Certainly  I'm  all  right;  it  was  only  the  way  I  was 
standing,"  Francis  told  him.  "Leaning  over  that  way, 
and  looking  over  my  shoulder,  supported  only  on  one  leg 
and  one  hand — " 

"Well,  well!  Of  course  it 'd  be  a  shock!"  continued 
Wkiggam,  encouragingly,  cluckily.  He  brushed  Mr. 

236 


Second    Youth 


Francis's  limp  arms  where  they  might  have  become  soiled 
by  contact  with  the  floor.  "Even  when  a  man's  decided 
a  woman's  not  for  him,  there's  still  likely  to  be — feelings ! 
But,  you  see,  she  told  me  she'd  invited  you — at  least, 
that's  how  I  understood  her.  She  said,  after  the  express- 
man left  your  address  the  other  evening,  she  walked 
over  to  your  new  place  and  invited  you  to  the  wedding — 
anyway,  that's  how  I  got  her.  Couldn't  get  much  out  of 
her  that  night — she's  moody,  very  moody !  And  yet  she's 
a  good-hearted  creature,  Big  B  is.  Well,  well — who'd 
'a'  thought  you'd  take  it  so  hard !  I  concluded,  from  what 
she  said,  all  was  over  between  you.  But  a  woman's  a 
peculiar  insect — she  is  so,  Mr.  Francis!  Secretive — 
often  says  what  she  don't  mean.  Oh,  I  know  'em — you 
couldn't  tell  me  anything  about  'em  I  wouldn't  believe! 
Four  times!"  He  shook  four  pudgy  fingers  before  Mr. 
Francis's  eye-glasses.  He  was  becoming  excited.  "Yes, 
sir,  this  is  the  fifth  go  at  it  for  Whiggie !  But  it  ain't  too 
late  yet!  If  she's  been  up  to  any  tricks — if  you've  still 
got  any  claim  on  her,  Francis,  o'  man — I'm  as  willing 
to  withdraw  now  as  I've  always  been  in  your  favor! 
Men  have  got  to  play  fair  with  each  other,  I  say!" 

No  suggestion  could  more  have  hastened  Mr.  Francis's 
recovery.  "Not  at  all — not  at  all.  Congratulations!" 
he  said.  "I  was  merely  surprised — that's  all.  I'd  never 
thought  of  you  in  relation  to — to  Mrs.  Benson." 

"Hadn't  you?  Why,  I  thought  that  time  when  I  told 
you  I  expected  to  get  married  soon — that  time  I  warned 
you  about  Big  B — " 

Francis  asked,  "You  intended  to  marry  her — all  the 
time?" 

"I  thought  I'd  probably  come  to  it,"  admitted  Whig- 
gam.  "You  remember  I  said  I  didn't  look  forward  to 

237 


Second    Youth 


any  bed  of  roses,  but  I  saw  I  was  slated  for  it  for  a  long 
time.  When  I  saw  you  getting  interested  in  her  I  said  to 
myself,  'Well,  he  can  have  her  if  he  wants  her — it's  his 
own  funeral.'  But  it  didn't  seem  fair  not  to  warn  you, 
so  I  did  my  best — and  I  hope  it  helped.  You're  not  the 
man  for  her.  She  needs  somebody  who  can  organize 
her.  I  think  I  can  do  it — I've  had  experience — but  it  '11 
be  a  hard  job!  Still,  I  always  said  to  myself  that  if 
anybody  else  wanted  her  I  wasn't  so  keen  but  what  it 
wasn't  honors  even  to  me.  I  was  ready  to  take  it  or 
leave  it.  There'd  be  advantages  and  disadvantages  on 
both  sides;  and  if  you  still  feel — " 

"I  don't!"  declared  Mr.  Francis.  "And  now  that  I 
see  how  far  matters  had  gone  between  you  and  Mrs.  Ben- 
son I  can  hardly  forgive  myself  for — for  having  come, 
even  for  a  short  time,  between  you." 

"Oh,  I  saw  how  it  was — it  wasn't  your  fault."  Whig- 
gam  crossed  his  feet  and  rested  a  big  knuckle  on  the 
counter;  matters  had  settled  to  the  level  of  a  philosophical 
discussion.  "I  saw  how  she  went  after  you — and  I 
didn't  blame  her.  Can't  blame  a  woman  for  preferring 
you  to  me,  can  you,  now?  At  the  same  time,  you  mustn't 
think  matters  have  gone  so  far  between  us  but  what — 
but  what  you  needn't  feel  any  hesitation —  Whiggam 
hesitated,  scratching  his  chin.  "I'll  tell  you  how  it  is — 
just  as  I  told  you  that  time  I  gave  you  fair  warning — 
she's  mushy,  but  she's  moral.  I  don't  want  you  to  think 
things  have  gone  so  far  between  us  but  what — if  you 
still  felt  inclined —  Why,  Mr.  Francis,  how  often  she's 
said  to  me,  'Not  an  inch  farther,  Whiggie — not  till  we're 
married!'  Oh,  she's  a  careful  one — and  I  like  that  about 
a  woman,  too!  After  I've  got  her  married  I'll  trust  her 
anywhere.  Yes,  sir — it  '11  take  some  work  to  get  her 

238 


Second    Youth 


organized,  but  when  they're  the  moral  sort  a  man  has 
got  a  good  deal  to  work  with.  And,  without  knocking 
anybody,  I'm  the  man  to  organize  her!  I'll  have  her 
regulated  like  an  eight-day  clock  before  we've  been 
married  a  month!  The  nearer  I've  got  to  Saturday  night 
the  more  I've  felt  maybe  hitching  up  would  be  the  making 
of  both  her  and  me." 

"The  more  I  think  of  it,"  said  Francis,  deeply  thought- 
ful, "the  more  I  agree  that  it  will  be.  Sincerest  con- 
gratulations !" 

He  rose  and  offered  Whiggam  his  hand.  A  great  feel- 
ing of  relief,  a  balloon-like  buoyancy,  filled  him.  Things 
were  coming  out  better  than  he  had  had  any  reason  to 
hope.  He  hadn't  wrecked  Mrs.  Benson's  life,  after  all. 
He  wanted  Whiggam  to  go,  so  that  he  could  be  alone  with 
his  joy.  Whenever  he  felt  particularly  joyous  he  wanted 
to  be  alone. 

"There's  something  about  a  marriage  ceremony," 
philosophized  Whiggam,  after  he  had  shaken  hands, 
"that  gives  folks  a  feeling  of — of  getting  down  to  bed- 
rock. Especially  a  man.  After  a  woman's  promised, 
solemn,  before  a  solemn  preacher,  to  love,  honor,  and 
obey  a  man  till  death  it  do  them  part — he's  got  something 
on  her,  he's  got  something  to  work  with,  Mr.  Francis! 
It's  a  pretty  poor  skate  of  a  man  who  can't  run  his  own 
home  after  that!  And  it's  good  for  the  women  to  be 
run,  too — they're  made  to  be  organized  by  somebody  who 
understands  'em.  Give  'em  their  heads  in  little  matters, 
and  put  your  foot  down  strong  on  anything  that  makes 
any  difference!  Oh,  I  know  'em!  I  guess  Big  B  and 
me  won't  make  such  a  bad  go  of  it,  after  all!" 

Francis  again  declared  that  they  would  be  happy. 
Jle  believed  it;  the  situation  as  laid  before  him  by  Whig- 


gam  appealed  to  his  understanding,  to  his  tangled  interest 
in  the  relations  between  men  and  women.  Whiggam,  in 
his  separate  star,  had  found  a  workable  philosophy  of  that 
relation,  it  seemed  to  him.  Whiggam's  philosophy,  of 
course,  wouldn't  do  for  all  stars.  Whiggam  was  a 
Pragmatist.  Mr.  Francis  was  becoming  less  of  an  Idealist, 
more  of  a  Pragmatist,  every  day.  He  appreciated  Whig- 
gam,  liked  him,  admired  him.  Verily,  he  admired  even 
Whiggam.  He  was  a  much-changed  Mr.  Francis. 

After  Whiggam  had  departed,  leaving  the  bond  that 
released  Mr.  Francis  from  breach-of-promise  dangers  in 
return  for  a  promise  to  send  along  the  five  hundred  dollars 
"in  a  day  or  two,"  Mr.  Francis  made  his  way  to  the  top 
floor,  walking  upon  air.  His  troubles  were  adjusting 
themselves;  the  Benson  matter  was  finally  settled,  done 
with;  Miss  Barney  had  spoken  to  him,  with  a  certain  re- 
serve, with  a  certain  sphinx-like  mysteriousness,  it  was 
true,  but  kindly  time  would  bring  her  around  also.  He 
would  write  a  note  to  Miss  Baumann,  explaining  that  he 
was  prevented  by  press  of  business  from  seeing  her 
Saturday.  After  that,  freed  from  the  intoxications  and 
regrets  connected  with  association  with  the  gentler  sex, 
he  would  be  ready  to  look  for  his  own  little  apartment,  a 
secluded  place,  a  place  intimately  his  own,  where,  in  the 
friendly  company  of  Cane,  Pipe,  and  Books,  he  could 
begin  to  enjoy  life. 

He  thought  about  the  oasis,  the  shrine,  the  tabernacle 
among  the  heathen  that  he  would  make  for  himself. 
There  would  be  silk  curtains  at  the  windows;  perhaps,  in 
time,  a  silk  rug  on  the  floor.  Everything  would  be  plain, 
simple,  substantial.  Furniture  of  brown  fumed  oak  would 
not  be  expensive,  and  a  plain  crex  rug  would  do  to  start 

with.     The  kitchen  things  would  be  aluminum,  of  course. 

240 


Second    Youth 


With  little  to  do,  he  pottered  about  the  receiving  and 
stock  rooms,  thinking,  planning,  expanding,  enjoying  an 
interim  of  delightful  peace  after  his  late  succession  of 
troubled  days. 

A  cloud,  a  small,  dark  cloud  no  larger  than  a  man's  hand, 
appeared  on  his  horizon  when  he  remembered  that  he 
must,  positively  must,  pay  that  dinner  call  at  the  Rem- 
micks'.  That  troublesome  detail  must  be  removed  before 
he  could  call  his  soul,  finally  and  completely,  his  own. 

He  went  back  into  his  department  with  the  idea  of  ask- 
ing Mr.  Remmick  if  he  couldn't  call  in  Flatbush  that 
evening.  After  speaking  to  Mr.  Remmick  he  would  write 
to  Miss  Baumann.  After  that —  "After  that,  the 
deluge!"  murmured  Mr.  Francis,  because  he  was  reminded 
of  an  interesting  quotation,  not  at  all  because  the  quota- 
tion might  have  any  connection  with  him,  and  hummed  a 
contented  little  tune  as  he  waited  around  for  Mr.  Rem- 
mick to  come  out  for  the  daily  inspection. 

Mr.  Remmick  came  out  along  toward  eleven  o'clock. 
Mr.  Francis,  with  proper  casualness,  managed  to  put  him- 
self in  the  head  buyer's  way. 

"Pretty  dull,"  said  Mr.  Remmick,  glancing  around  the 
deserted  department. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Francis. 

"How'd  you  come  out  with  Gladden?"  asked  the 
buyer. 

Francis,  seeing  the  line  of  conversation  he  had  pre- 
pared thus  shut  off,  was  flustered.  "Oh — we  talked  quite 
a  bit,"  he  admitted. 

"When  it  comes  to  terms,  stick  out  for  one  hundred 
dollars.  They'll  pay  it — and  you're  worth  it,"  said  the 
buyer,  and  strolled  away,  his  big,  iron-gray  head  sagging 

in  front,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back, 

241 


Second    Youth 


Francis's  prepared  line  of  conversation  was  not  only 
blocked,  but  devastated.  One  hundred  dollars — one  hun- 
dred dollars  a  week?  Of  course  he  knew  that  good  silk 
men  received  fabulous  salaries:  Mr.  Remmick  was  re- 
puted to  receive  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year.  Still,  one 
hundred  dollars  a  week — 

His  calmness  and  contentment  of  the  minute  before 
were  scattered  to  the  winds;  and  yet,  considering  the 
cause  of  the  scattering,  he  was  not  cast  down.  He 
strolled  among  his  silks,  head  high,  cheeks  flushed,  eyes 
that  saw  visions.  He  was  intoxicated,  as  intoxicated  as 
he  had  been  when  a  certain  fine  lady  some  days,  weeks, 
months,  years,  yes,  decades  ago  had  invited  him  to  go 
out  to  dinner  with  her.  And  the  intoxication  was  of 
much  the  same  sort,  at  least  enough  of  the  same  sort  so 
that  he  could  recognize  the  parallel. 

"Come  down,  come  down,  Francis,  old  horse!"  he 
cautioned  himself.  "All  is  not  gold  that  glitters!  Re- 
member how  you've  been  puffed  up  with  expectations 
before !  Remember  that  you've  taken  things  too  much  for 
granted,  o'  man — remember  that  and  come  down!" 

And  yet,  an  intoxicating  dream  as  presented  by  a  fine 
lady  had  important  points  of  difference  from  one  pre- 
sented by  Julius  Hanson  Remmick,  head  buyer  of 
McDavitt's  silk  department.  The  Remmick  dream  had 
a  business  reputation  back  of  it.  The  other  had  had 
merely  the  amazing  inconsistencies  of  women. 

Francis  wanted  to  go  right  over  to  the  office  and  ask 
Mr.  Remmick  for  further  details;  he  decided  to  act  pre- 
cisely as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

In  that  state  of  mind  he  regretted  that  he  had  been 
too  much  overcome  to  think  of  asking  Mr.  Remmick 
about  that  evening's  call  in  Flatbush.  There  would  be  au 


Second    Youth 


opportunity  to  retrieve  that  mistake  when  Miss  Barney 
went  out  for  luncheon;  her  forty-five  minutes  for  lunch 
began  at  twelve  o'clock.  Mr.  Remmick  seldom  went  out 
before  one. 

For  some  fifteen  minutes  after  Miss  Barney  had  gone 
Francis  lingered  outside,  getting  his  prepared  line  of  con- 
versation back  into  proper  condition.  Then  he  entered 
the  office,  and  began: 

"Mr.  Remmick,  I've  been  intending  to  ask  you  every 
day,  but  you've  been  away  so  much,  and  other  things 
seemed  to  interfere,  and  I've  hesitated  to  bother  you — " 
He  paused  for  breath. 

Mr.  Remmick,  who  had  been  reclining  in  his  office- 
chair  with  his  feet  in  Mr.  Francis's  chair,  withdrew  his 
feet.  "Sit  down,  Francis,  sit  down!"  he  begged.  "I 
can't  tell  you  much — but  don't  you  worry — " 

"What  I  wanted  to  ask  was,  whether  it  would  be  con- 
venient for  me  to — to  make  my  dinner  call  at  your 
house  this  evening,  you  know?"  Francis  hurried  on,  with 
regained  breath,  along  carefully  prepared  lines.  "It  is, 
perhaps,  not  customary  to  ask  permission  to  make  a 
dinner  call,  and  yet  I  thought  it  might  be  more  convenient. 
I  remember  my  recent  evening  at  your  house,  Mr.  Rem- 
mick, as  one  of  the  oases  in  my  rather  lonely  life.  I 
enjoyed  meeting  your  wife  and  daughters  more,  perhaps, 
than  you  might  suspect  from  my — my  remissness  in 
making  the  dinner  call.  I  especially  remember  Miss 
Helen — her  fine  bread — and  the  angel-food  with  the 
strawberries — " 

This  last  was  extempore,  a  pure  improvisation,  a  gar- 
nishing detail,  and  it  did  not  come  as  easily  as  the  pre- 
ceding, more  carefully  thought-out,  matter. 

Mr.  Remmick  subsided  from  faint  surprise  into  amuse- 

243 


Second    Youth 


ment.  He  threw  back  his  big  head  and  laughed,  with  his 
mouth  open,  at  the  ceiling. 

"Well — well!  I  supposed,  of  course,  you  were  getting 
at  that  Gladden  matter!"  he  chuckled.  "But  there  are 
things  more  interesting  to  you  young  fellows  than  busi- 
ness, it  seems!  Don't  blame  you — young  myself  once! 
Well,  well!" 

Mr.  Francis,  flustered,  surprised,  humbled,  tried  to  join 
in  his  superior's  amusement,  and  achieved  a  sickly,  em- 
barrassed grin.  He  began  to  blush;  there  was  something 
about  Mr.  Remmick's  snorts  and  stares  of  amusement  that 
seemed  to  call  for  blushes.  He  stood  on  one  leg,  breathing 
hard,  red  from  chin  to  temples.  He  was  horribly  self- 
conscious,  horribly  at  sea  as  to  what  he  had  done  to  call 
forth  so  much  amusement. 

"Yes — yes — come  out  this  evening,  by  all  means!" 
Mr.  Remmick  drawled,  in  a  condescending,  tolerant, 
jocular  monotone.  "You  needn't  look  so  cut-up — we've 
all  been  there,  son !  If  it  '11  do  you  any  good,  I  may  as 
well  tell  you  you've  aroused  a  good  deal  of  interest  in 
certain  quarters,  too.  I've  been  pumped  about  Mr. 
Francis  ever  since  you  came  to  dinner — I've  given  you  a 
good  reputation,  too!" 

"Thank  you — thank  you — very  much!"  stammered 
Francis,  beginning  to  back  toward  the  door,  beginning  to 
be  horrified  as  he  got  a  faint  idea  of  what  was  in  Mr. 
Remmick's  mind. 

"And  I'll  call  up  and  tell  'em  you're  coming,"  the 
buyer  assured  him,  still  chuckling  in  slow  waves  of 
humor  that  seemed  to  come  from  his  midriff.  "Shouldn't 
wonder  if  you'd  find  some  new-baked  angel-food  specially 
in  honor  of  the  occasion!  Well,  well — I  suppose  at  one 
time  a  hundred-dollar  job  wouldn't  have  looked  as  im- 

£44 


Second    Youth 


portant  to   ine  as  going   to   see  a  girl,  either!     Well, 
well!" 

But  Mr.  Francis  was  already  on  his  way  back  to  the 
buyers'  coat-lockers,  stunned,  amazed,  filled  with  fear  and 
forebodings  by  this  excess  of  fatherly  intuition.  The 
single  cloud  had  spread  across  the  whole  horizon. 

That  night,  the  night  of  Friday,  June  30th,  along  toward 
midnight,  Mr.  Francis  took  out  the  book  in  the  dingy 
solitude  of  his  dollar-a-day  hotel  bedroom,  and  wrote: 

For  a  little  while  to-day  I  thought  everything  was 
arranged,  but  it  seems  I  reckoned  without  my  host.  Mr. 
Remmick  was  the  host  on  this  occasion.  Miss  Remmick 
was  the  hostess,  whereas  I  had  expected  her  mother  to  be. 
It  made  a  great  deal  of  difference,  I  found. 

The  Remmicks  greeted  me  pleasantly,  at  first,  but  Mr. 
Remmick  soon  developed  a  return  to  his  amusement  of  the 
afternoon.  He  began  to  throw  out  genial  little  insinua- 
tions, such  as,  "  I  don't  suppose  you'd  care  to  come  up  to 
my  room,  Francis,  and  talk  about  that  new  hundred- 
dollar-a-week  job?"  Mrs.  Remmick  said,  "Now,  father!" 
and  looked  embarrassed;  and  Helen  blushed  furiously.  I 
fear  I  blushed,  also,  at  least  when  Mr.  Remmick  said, 
"I've  been  afraid  lately,  Francis,  that  you  were  running 
down  a  trifle,  but  you  have  a  fine  color  this  evening." 

Shortly  after  this,  on  one  excuse  or  another,  everybody 
left  the  room  but  Miss  Helen  Remmick  and  me.  I 
told  her  I  thought  I'd  better  go.  I'd  only  been  there 
fifteen  minutes  or  so,  but  I  was  anxious  to  go,  and  that's 
the  truth. 

"Don't   mind   father — he's  been   simply  horrible  to- 

245 


Second    Y out h 


night!"  said  Miss  Remmick,  and  I  saw  she  had  been  as 
much  upset  by  the  proceedings  as  I  had.  Doubtless  she 
was  as  much  embarrassed  by  being  left  alone  with  me 
as  I  was  with  her.  "Let's  go  out  and  take  a  little  walk 
— there  are  some  beautiful  walks  around  here." 

We  went  out.  I  felt  sorry  for  her.  She  seemed  very 
miserable.  But  we  both  of  us  cheered  up  a  good  deal  in 
the  open  air.  There  are  some  beautiful  walks  around 
there,  large,  overhanging  trees,  fine  houses  with  lawns 
around  them,  flower-beds,  and  the  cleanest  asphalt  I  ever 
saw. 

Miss  Remmick  told  me  that  her  father  was  really  very 
fond  of  me,  in  spite  of  the  way  he'd  acted  that  evening. 
"He  was  telling  us  about  your  new  position  just  before 
you  came  in,"  she  said.  "He  said  he'd  recommended  you 
to  Mr.  Gladden.  He'd  be  sorry  to  lose  you,  but  it  wasn't 
decent  to  keep  you  there  when  you  might  be  making  about 
three  times  as  much  somewhere  else.  I  suppose  you're 
very  much  excited  by  the  prospect  of  making  a  hundred 
dollars  a  week?" 

I  told  her  the  truth;  I'd  had  too  much  excitement 
lately,  and  I  didn't  worry  very  much  about  the  chance 
I'd  get  a  hundred-dollar-a-week  position.  "The  thing  I 
want  most,"  I  said,  "right  now,  is  just  to  get  off  by  my- 
self and  not  have  any  excitement  for  a  good,  long  time." 

"I  didn't  suppose  life  in  a  department  store  would  be 
so  exciting,"  she  said.  "What  have  you  been  doing?" 

Of  course  I  couldn't  tell  her  that.  I  fear  I  could 
not  tell  any  young,  innocent-minded  girl  about  the  dif- 
ferent varieties  of  excitement  that  seem  to  have  cropped 
up  in  my  life  lately.  I  passed  it  off,  and  asked  her  what 
she  did  herself.  She  said  she'd  had  a  rather  lonesome 

time  of  it  since  graduation  from  high  school,  she'd  just 

246 


Second    Youth 


stayed  around  home,  and  gone  out  to  a  few  parties  and 
things,  and  did  the  baking — she  loved  to  bake  and  fuss 
around  a  kitchen.  She  seemed  to  expect  that  I  ought 
to  admire  her  for  this,  but  I  didn't  especially,  so  I  said 
nothing.  A  man  can  be  too  free  with  his  compliments,  I 
find.  If  I  had  not  been  too  free  with  my  compliments 
before  Mr.  Remmick  he  wouldn't  have  altogether  mis- 
judged the  state  of  things  between  me  and  Miss  Helen. 

All  this  time  I  hadn't  looked  at  her.  As  we  passed 
under  an  electric  light,  shining  down  through  the  waving 
branches  of  a  tall,  overhanging  tree,  I  looked  at  her. 
Caught  her  profile.  A  thrill  went  through  me. 

Curses  on  it,  it  was  all  back — I  seemed  to  go  back  as  if 
the  past  few  illuminating  weeks  had  never  been.  She  re- 
minded me  of  Miss  Winton — I  hadn't  thought  of  her.  I 
had  determined  to  put  her  out  of  my  mind,  and  I  had 
pretty  well  succeeded.  What  is  it  about  a  certain  woman 
that  will  take  a  hold  on  something  in  a  man,  and  not 
let  go  till  it  thunders?  I  might  as  well  be  jocular  about  it, 
there  is  something  humorous  in  it.  There  used  to  be  a 
slough  over  near  East  River  in  Astoria  where  there  were 
snapping-turtles  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  we  used  to  say 
that  if  one  ever  got  hold  of  a  fellow's  foot  it  wouldn't  let 
go  till  it  thundered.  Since  we  never  went  over  there 
when  it  looked  like  rain,  we  used  to  be  frightfully  afraid 
— even  yet,  humorous  as  it  is,  the  remembrance  of  the 
way  I  used  to  be  afraid  one  of  those  snapping-turtles 
would  get  hold  of  me  sends  a  chill  through  me.  I  was 
absolutely  certain  if  one  did  he  would  never  let  go  until 
it  thundered,  even  if  the  last  thunder-storm  of  the  fall  had 
passed  and  we  couldn't  expect  any  more  thunder  for  six 
or  eight  months. 

Maybe  Miss  Winton  will  let  go  of  me  when  it  thunders. 

247 


Second    Youth 


Not  before,  I  guess.     I  must  look  out  for  thunder,  and 
see  how  I  feel  after  it. 

I  admit  I  rather  hate  her.  What  right  had  she  to  take 
hold  of  me  as  she  has,  and  keep  hold,  in  spite  of  all  I 
can  do? 

I  sat  there  on  a  park  bench  beside  Miss  Remmick, 
thinking  of  that.     I  was  probably  a  fine,  congenial  guest, 
just  as  I  was  the  first  time. 

Remember  nothing  about  the  park  except  it  was  a 
little  one;  there  was  a  white  piece  of  marble  statuary  some- 
where among  the  low,  bushy  trees  in  front  of  us,  and  a 
fountain  that  kept  trickling. 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  very  happy  for  a  man  who's 
just  come  up  in  the  world  as  much  as  you  have,"  said 
Miss  Remmick,  and  laughed  at  me. 

I  said  that  the  further  a  man  came  up  in  the  world  the 
more  trouble  he  seemed  to  have,  and  I  often  wished  I 
was  a  simple  salesman  at  sixteen  dollars  a  week,  with 
forty-five  minutes  off  for  lunch,  in  McDavitt's  silk  de- 
partment. I  felt  reckless,  enraged  at  Miss  Winton  and 
enraged  at  myself,  because,  of  course,  I  realized  it  was 
my  own  fault  if  I  still  thought  of  her. 

"Tell  me  about  some  of  your  troubles,"  said  Miss 
Remmick.  She  was  very  sweet  and  kind,  and  very  pretty 
in  her  soft,  white  chiffon  over  pale  green  silk.  She  also 
had  on  pale  green  satin  slippers.  She  was  as  beautiful  as 
a  picture  out  of  a  frame  in  the  Metropolitan. 

"I  couldn't;  they  are  not  such  as  I  could  tell  to  you," 
said  I,  trying  to  show,  however,  that  I  appreciated  her 
friendliness.  This  only  seemed  to  make  her  the  more 
determined  to  know  them.  I  actually  wanted  to  tell 
them  to  her;  her  viewpoint  might  be  different  from  Miss 
Baumann's,  and  perhaps  it  takes  several  viewpoints  to 

248 


Second    Youth 


get  at  the  truth  of  a  matter.  But  I  restrained  myself. 
She  is  little  more  than  a  child,  for  all  she  is  so  beautiful. 

Suppose  I  made  love  to  her?  I  thought.  Suppose  she 
did  not  actually  despise  me,  as  I  felt  she  did  not?  Sup- 
pose we  were  married?  She  was  a  little  like  Miss  Win  ton, 
her  profile,  at  least — I  might  find  happiness  that  I  would 
never  attain  in  the  bachelor  existence  on  which  I  had 
set  my  heart. 

"You  must  have  been  through  a  great  many  things; 
you  seem  to  me  to  have  lived — but  life  doesn't  seem  to 
have  spoiled  you,  either,"  she  said,  and  sighed.  She 
reminded  me  a  little  of  a  book.  I  could  not  help  liking 
her.  I  thought  possibly  I  might  turn  my  unrequited  love 
for  Miss  Winton  toward  her.  I  remembered  something 
I  had  read  in  a  book  somewhere.  It  said  of  a  woman,  a 
girl  much  like  Miss  Remmick,  ingenuous,  inexperienced, 
helpless,  "She  was  reaping  where  another  woman  had 
sown,  a  very  common  way  in  matters  of  the  heart." 

Well,  and  why  shouldn't  she?  I  asked.  As  I  looked  at 
Miss  Remmick  there  in  the  pale-green  electric  light,  with 
her  pure,  rose  tinted  complexion,  round,  dark  blue  eyes, 
and  soft,  fuzzy  hair,  a  great  wave  of  feeling  came  over  me. 

I  groaned  out:  "You're  beautiful — you're  beautiful 
as  the  dew  upon  the  grass  beneath  the  electric  lights  shin- 
ing through  waving  trees!  I  wish  I  could  love  you — I 
wish  you  could  love  me !  I'm  all  broken  up — I'm  desolate 
— forlorn — I've  given  my  whole  heart  to  a  woman  who 
doesn't  care  a  rap  for  me!"  I  said  other  things  I  cannot 
precisely  remember,  all  of  the  same  tenor.  But  nothing 
definite — I  am  quite  sure  of  that.  I  explained  to  her 
that  I  was  so  overcome  because  she  reminded  me  of 
another  who  was  my  ideal. 

Well,  it  was  awful.     I  was  a  fool,  of  course.     I  couldn't 

I?  249 


Second    Youth 


really  love  her,  she  is  just  a  little  girl.  What  she  needs 
is  a  father,  some  one  to  protect  her,  and  pet  her,  and 
tell  her  to  do  things — a  husband  who'll  be  a  father  first 
and  a  husband  afterward.  I'm  not  that  sort  of  man,  I 
fear.  It  would  be  easier  if  I  were.  Perhaps  most  men 
are  like  that,  but  what  I  want  is  some  one  I  can  look  up 
to  in  certain  ways,  who  can  walk  with  me  shoulder  to 
shoulder  as  a  good  friend,  a  comrade,  on  an  equality  with 
me — as  Miss  Winton  could  if  she  wanted  to.  When  I 
am  with  a  little  girl  like  Miss  Remmick  I  feel  as  helpless 
as  she  looks.  I'm  too  old  for  that  sort  of  love,  and  that's 
the  truth.  I'm  years  too  old  for  her.  If  we  had  started 
when  I  was  a  simple  salesman  and  she  what  she  is  now,  it 
would  have  been  different.  July  shouldn't  mate  with 
April.  It  may  be  symbolical  that  to-morrow  is  the  first 
day  of  July,  that  I  have  passed  through  April,  May,  and 
June  since  I  first  noticed  Miss  Winton. 

It  breaks  me  all  up,  both  for  her  sake  and  mine,  to 
remember  that  I  am  engaged  to  Miss  Remmick.  Or  as 
good  as  engaged.  I  am  to  go  out  to-morrow  evening, 
Saturday  evening,  to  make  sure  that  we  both  know  our 
own  minds.  If  I  had  any  confidence  in  my  common 
sense  I'd  be  sure  I  could  explain  matters  to  her  so  that 
she'd  understand,  that  she  has  just  got  a  little  girl's 
crush  on  me,  that  she'll  never  be  happy  with  the  sort 
of  man  I  am,  that  I'm  too  old  for  her — and  she's  too 
young  for  me. 

But  I  fear  it  won't  work.  When  she  cried  I  went  all  to 
pieces,  and  I  shall  probably  do  so  again  if  she  cries.  It's 
an  awful  argument.  A  man  has  to  be  a  brute  to  stand 
before  it.  His  only  refuge  is  running  away,  and  I  couldn't 
leave  her  alone  there  in  the  park.  Perhaps  it  would  have 
been  kinder  to  her  if  I  had  run  away;  in  fact,  I'm  sure  it 

250 


Second    Youth 


would,  but  it  takes  an  awful  push  at  times  to  make  a  man 
able  to  put  through  that  sort  of  kindness. 

Ob,  what's  the  use!  Possibly  I'll  get  on  better  with 
her  than  I  think.  Good-by  to  my  little  apartment, 
though.  Good-by  to  Pipe,  Cane,  and  Books,  and  letting 
the  world  muddle  up  as  much  as  it  wants  to! 

And  still,  after  to-night,  I  fear  I  might  perhaps  not 
have  been  contented  there  as  I  had  grown  to  think  I  would 
be  of  late.  I'd  soon  begin  to  hunger  and  thirst  after  Miss 
Winton  again,  I  fear.  Perhaps  getting  married  is  my  only 
way  of  curing  the  aching  void  she  has  left  in  my  formerly 
contented  life. 


XV 

HE  FACES  A  HARVEST-DAY  IN  WHICH  THE  WORKERS  ARE  SO 
FAR   FROM   FEW   THAT   HE   IS   ALMOST   GARNERED   IN 

MR.  FRANCIS  avoided  meeting  his  superior  the 
next  morning;  he  reached  the  office  early,  before 
even  the  early-appearing  Miss  Barney  had  arrived,  took 
the  few  invoice-slips  from  his  file,  and  retreated  to  the 
top  floor.  Shortly  after  eight  o'clock  one  of  the  porters 
brought  him  word  that  Mr.  Remmick  wanted  him  on  the 
telephone. 

Francis  hurried  to  the  receiving-room  phone,  outwardly 
all  dignity,  inwardly  full  of  matters  that  made  him  weak 
at  the  knees. 

"Hello!  That  you,  Francis?"  Mr.  Remmick's  voice 
was  bland  to  the  point  of  sugariness.  "Just  come  down 
to  the  office,  will  you?" 

Francis  went  down.  He  might  have  been  wanted 
because  he  hadn't  brought  Helen  Remmick  home  the 
night  before  until  eleven  o'clock,  when  all  the  Remmick 
lights  were  out;  he  might  have  been  wanted  because  Miss 
Barney  had  complained  to  Mr.  Remmick  of  certain 
matters;  it  might  be  merely  that  he  was  due  for  a  lectur- 
ing because  he  had  neglected  the  displays  of  late.  He 
prayed  in  his  heart  that  it  might  be  the  displays.  Mr. 
Remmick's  voice  had  been  too  bland  for  the  matter  to  be 
anything  less  important  than  a  neglect  of  the  displays, 


Second    Youth 


With  the  outer  dignity  of  a  new-made  baron,  with  the 
inner  timorousness  of  a  newly  kicked  cat,  Mr.  Francis 
entered  the  office. 

Remmick  was  seated  at  his  desk;  Mr.  Gladden  was 
seated  beside  him.  Mr.  Gladden  arose  and  offered 
Francis  his  hand. 

"Miss  Barney,"  said  Mr.  Remmick,  "if  you  don't 
mind,  take  a  little  stroll  through  the  store  for  about  fifteen 
minutes,  will  you,  please?" 

Miss  Barney  arose,  flushed  and  with  lowered  head,  and 
went  out.  Her  white-duck  skirt  brushed  Mr.  Francis  in 
passing.  He  caught  the  peculiar  fragrance  of  the  perfume 
she  used.  He  released  Mr.  Gladden's  hand,  and  Mr. 
Gladden  resumed  his  seat  beside  Mr.  Remmick.  Francis 
remained  standing,  on  display. 

"Well,  it's  a  hundred  a  week  —  but  it's  Brooklyn. 
Think  you  can  stand  Brooklyn,  son?"  Mr.  Remmick  de- 
livered the  information  and  question  in  a  slow,  monotonous 
drawl  as  soon  as  the  door  had  closed  behind  Miss  Barney. 

Francis  looked  from  his  superior's  amused  grin  to  Mr. 
Gladden's  calculating  keenness.  He  was  unusually  calm, 
calm  inside  and  out.  A  hundred  dollars  a  week  and 
working  in  Brooklyn  were  not  the  most  difficult  problems 
in  life. 

Gladden  nodded  at  him.  "It's  Brooklyn — but  you 
could  live  in  Manhattan  if  you  wanted  to,"  he  said,  with 
some  dryness. 

"Why — since  you  manage  to  live  in  part  of  Brooklyn, 
Mr.  Remmick,"  said  Francis,  "I  think  I  ought  to  be  able 
to  put  up  with  it." 

Both  the  elder  men  smiled.  "Brooklyn  is  so  far  ahead 
of  Manhattan  it's  waste  of  time  to  discuss  the  subject," 
Mr.  Gladden  commented.  "It's  Phillips-Losers,  Mr. 


Second    Youth 


Francis.  You'll  be  in  entire  charge  of  the  silks.  We're 
offering  you  more  than  we've  ever  paid,  but  Mr.  Remmick 
assures  me  you're  worth  it.  We're  expanding — along 
with  Brooklyn.  We  want  to  be  to  Brooklyn  what 
McDavitt's  is  to  Manhattan — and  we  will  be  within  a  few 
years.  What  do  you  say?" 

Francis  said,  "Why,  I'm  glad — I'm,  of  course,  de- 
lighted—" 

"Come  to  the  point — do  you  take  it?"  It  was  plain 
already  that  he  had  taken  it,  that  Mr.  Gladden  was  merely 
gladdening  his  heart  with  a  little  display  of  authority. 

"I  do — yes,"  said  Francis. 

"That's  the  way  to  talk!"  Gladden  got  up,  flapped 
back  his  long  black  coat-tails,  and  walked  along  the 
central  aisle  of  the  narrow  office.  "I  think  we'll  get  on, 
Mr.  Francis — you're  not  one  of  these  damned  young 
Weisenheimers,  full  of  hot  air  and  snappy,  new  ideas  that 
won't  snap.  Excuse  me  if  I  seem  abrupt.  It's  just  my 
way — way  I  do  business.  Can  you  come  two  weeks  from 
Monday?" 

"Why — I — "     Francis  glanced  at  Mr.  Remmick. 

"He  can,"  said  Remmick,  standing  up,  reaching  out  his 
hand.  "Well,  son,  you've  got  a  good  job!  Congratu- 
lations!" 

Francis  shook  hands  with  him,  unable  to  speak.  The 
goldenness  of  his  fortune  began  to  occupy  his  mind,  to 
take  up  the  space  that  had  been  allotted  to  troubles  too 
numerous  to  mention.  He  was  the  head  buyer  of  Phillips- 
Losers's  silk  department — of  Phillips-Losers  that  already 
was  beginning  to  be  called  the  Brooklyn  McDavitt's. 
He,  Roland  F.  Francis,  had  reached  that  dizzy  pinnacle 
all  in  one  vast  leap !  He  tried  to  look  stern,  judicial. 

"Want  you  to  get  acquainted  with  us,  learn  the  stock, 

254 


Second    Youth 


make  up  your  plans  before  time  for  fall  buying,"  Mr. 
Gladden  was  saying.  "Want  to  give  you  time  to  get 
over  your  foolish  ideas  about  blacks — Brooklyn  uses  a  lot 
of  blacks.  Silk  dresses  for  the  ladies  to  go  to  church  in. 
Brooklyn  is  the  City  of  Churches,  Mr.  Francis.  You've 
got  to  remember  that  when  you're  stocking.  But  we 
can  talk  all  that  over  later.  Guess  we  can  call  it  settled, 
then.  Hope,  and  expect,  arrangement  will  be  mutually 
satisfactory." 

Gladden  held  out  his  hand.  Francis  shook  hands  with 
him,  nodded  thankfully  at  Mr.  Remmick,  and  fled  into 
the  comparative  seclusion  of  his  own  department.  He 
meditated  leaving  the  store,  going  boldly  away  in  the 
midst  of  working  hours  as  he  had  a  right  to  do,  but  as  he 
had  never  felt  like  doing  before.  He  wanted,  as  always, 
to  be  alone  with  his  joy. 

"Customers  asking  for  you  down  at  Counter  A,  Mr. 
Francis,"  announced  a  floor-walker  who  had  managed,  on 
twenty  dollars  a  week,  to  make  himself  into  a  fairly  exact 
copy  of  the  late  King  Edward  of  England.  "Just  going 
over  to  the  office  to  get  you."  He  took  Mr.  Francis 
gently  out  into  the  end  aisle,  leading  him  by  one  arm  as 
if  he  had  been  a  mazed  male  customer,  and  pointed  with 
a  lead-pencil,  regally,  as  if  it  had  been  a  scepter.  "There 
they  are,"  said  the  floor-walker. 

There  were — Mrs.  Benson  and  Whiggie.  They  caught 
sight  of  him  at  once  and  started  toward  him,  side  by  side. 
They  made  a  very  presentable  couple,  of  almost  equal 
height  and  width,  one  dressed  in  shiny  black  silk,  the 
other  in  black  with  noticeable  green  stripes. 

Mr.  Francis,  after  one  appalled  moment,  caused  by  the 
familiar  round  countenance  of  Mrs.  Benson,  smiled  an4 
went  forward  to  meet  them. 


Second    Youth 


"Well — I  brought  her  so  you'd  have  no  doubts  whether 
you  were  invited  or  not  for  to-night's  hanging!"  said 
Whiggie,  giving  Mr.  Francis's  hand  a  short  squeeze  after 
Francis  had  released  it  from  Mrs.  Benson's  wide,  clinging 
clasp.  "Obsequies  wouldn't  be  complete  without  you,  o' 
man!  Big  B— " 

"Whiggie!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Benson. 

"I  mean,  of  course,  Heloise  here — she  admitted  she 
might  not  have  invited  you  as  cordial  that  evening  at 
your  new  boarding-house  as  she  might,"  Whiggie  went  on, 
with  a  broad  wink  at  Mr.  Francis.  "  She  agreed  to  come 
and  invite  you  with  all  her  heart  and  let  bygones  be  by- 
gones. Oh,  I'm  getting  her  organized  already,  Mr. 
Francis!  You  won't  know  her  after  I've  been  regulatin' 
her  about  a  month!" 

"Oh,  you — "  Mrs.  Benson  pushed  her  jocular  fiance" 
sharply  in  the  ribs  with  one  elbow,  whereat  he  pretended 
great  pain.  She  smiled  at  Mr.  Francis  in  the  kittenish 
way  of  a  shortly-to-be-bride  who  recognizes  the  short- 
comings of  her  shortly-to-be-groom  only  as  matters  for 
amusement.  She  was  changed;  she  seemed  softened, 
"regulated,"  already.  Mighty,  reflected  Mr.  Francis, 
must  be  the  regulating  power  of  Whiggie. 

Whiggie  gripped  one  of  Mrs.  Benson's  plump,  black- 
silken  arms,  and  commanded,  "Now  say  your  piece  to  the 
gentleman!"  He  was  smiling  like  a  good-natured  gorilla, 
already  well  fed  and  expectant  of  dessert  immediately. 

"Oh,  now,  you  stop!"  complained  Mrs.  Benson, 
wrinkling  her  brows  in  a  way  that  sent  a  sudden  chill  of 
recollection  up  and  down  Mr.  Francis's  spine.  "You're 
hurting  me — you're  going  too  far,  Whiggie,  you  brute!" 

"Well,  then  I'll  say  it  for  her!"  Whiggie  had  imme- 
diately released  her  arm,  and  paid  no  further  attention  to 

256 


Second    Youth 


her  pettishness;  under  this  treatment  her  face  smoothed 
as  it  had  not  been  accustomed  to  smooth  before  Francis's 
agonizing  attempts  at  apologies.  "We  want  to  tell  you, 
Mr.  Francis,  that  all  that  will  keep  this  evening's  shoot- 
ing-match from  being  a  howling  success  is  your  absence — 
your  absence  from  the  bombardment.  How's  that?  Will 
you  come?" 

"I  certainly  will!"  said  Francis,  forgetting,  in  his  almost 
excruciating  joy  at  the  way  matters  had  come  out  between 
Mrs.  Benson  and  Whiggie,  that  he  had  several  other  en- 
gagements for  that  evening. 

"There,  now,  I  told  you  he  would!"  announced  Whig- 
gam  to  his  fiancee. 

Mrs.  Benson's  eyes  had  not  left  Francis's  face:  "You 
promise,  on  your  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman,  Mr. 
Francis?" 

There  was  certainly  another  sphinx,  if  not  both  a  sphinx 
and  a  basilisk,  behind  those  words,  behind  that  look. 
Mystery,  dark,  double-meaning,  lurked  there.  Mrs. 
Benson  was  no  longer  the  kittenish  near-spouse  of  Mr. 
Whiggam.  Francis  was  reminded  of  Miss  Barney.  He 
paled,  stared,  hesitated. 

"I  told  her  you  would,  of  course,"  Whiggie  rambled  on; 
"she  said  you  wouldn't.  Well,  Heloise,  are  you  satisfied?" 

"He  hasn't  promised  yet  —  on  his  word  of  honor." 
Mrs.  Benson's  eyes  were  still  on  Francis,  still  full  of  a 
mixture  of  sphinxes  and  basilisks  and  entrances  to 
Avernus,  and  other  things  proper  to  a  lady  with  a  fixed 
idea. 

"Of  course  I  have,"  said  Francis,  looking  at  Whiggie  in 
order  to  escape  the  mythological  significance  of  Mrs. 
Benson's  orbs.  "I've  promised — and  I  do  promise,  Mrs. 
Benson," 

257 


Second    Youth 


She  was  at  once  a  changed  woman.  She  laughed.  "I 
know  you're  a  man  of  your  word,  Mr.  Francis,"  she  said, 
lightly.  "I  know,  now,  you'd  come  even  if  the  heavens 
fell !  We're  both  of  us,  Whiggie  and  I,  glad  no  end." 

"We  are  that,  o'  man!"  said  Whiggam. 

"And  now  you  run  along,  Whiggie — remember  your 
promise!"  Mrs.  Benson  was  the  kittenish  about-to-be- 
spouse  again.  "Run  along,  and  work  hard,  and  sell  a 
lot  of  stuff — and  I'll  see  you  at  four  o'clock!" 

"Sure — on  my  way!"  agreed  Whiggam,  reaching  out  his 
hairy  paw  for  one  last  handshake  with  Mr.  Francis. 
"  She  made  me  promise,  before  she'd  come  with  me,  that 
I'd  leave  her  alone  with  you.  Guess  she  wants  to  close 
up  some  matter  or  other,"  he  explained.  "Since  I've 
got  her  so  well  organized,  thought  I  might  as  well  do  it. 
But  don't  flirt,  now,  will  you?" 

He  waved  his  hand,  and  went  off,  chuckling  at  his 
joke;  and  yet  Francis  felt  that  the  salesman  was  a  trifle 
piqued  by  the  situation. 

Mr.  Francis  was  more  than  piqued;  he  was  devastated. 
His  face  paled  at  least  a  shade  for  every  step  that  Whiggie 
took  in  his  brisk  departure.  'By  the  time  Whiggie  had 
got  well  out  of  sight  and  hearing  he  had  grown  as  pale  as 
possible  and  started  to  take  on  color  from  the  other  end 
of  the  scale;  from  having  been  pinkish  with  pleasure  and 
amusement  a  short  time  before  he  became  faintly  violet, 
with  a  suggestion  of  blue.  It  was  a  harrowing  perform- 
ance. The  look  on  Mrs.  Benson's  broad,  ruddy,  solid  face 
was  responsible  for  it. 

Her  first  words  for  his  ears  alone  brought  an  increase 
of  the  bluish  tinge  on  his  cheeks  and  lips. 

"Roland,"  she  declaimed,  "save  me — save  me  from 
marrying  that  brute,  that  reprobate — I  mean  Whiggie!" 

258 


Second    Youth 


Francis  knew,  or  at  least  suspected,  that  he  was  stand- 
ing in  one  of  the  aisles  of  his  own  department;  it  was  no 
place  to  faint;  it  was  no  place  even  to  turn  and  try  to  run 
in;  it  was  eminently  a  place  for  summoning  up  all  the 
manhood  that  a  man  had 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Mrs.  Benson,"  he  said;  and 
he  recognized  the  voice  as  his  own  as  he  said  it. 

"You  do,  Roland,  you  do!  You  know  he's  a  brute — 
he  drinks — he  has  no  finer  feelings!  Would  he  ever  think 
of  taking  me  to  hear  fine  music  at  Carnegie  Hall?  Answer 
me,  would  he,  Roland?" 

"But  you  don't  care  for  high-brow  fiddling,  Mrs.  Ben- 
son." Mr.  Francis's  color  had  passed  through  blue,  green, 
and  reached  the  yellows.  He  was  coming  back  in  re- 
verse order.  He  was  doing  very  well. 

"I  do — I  love  it — when  my  feelings  aren't  taken  up 
with  something  else!" 

Francis  said:  "Whiggam  is  a  real  friend  of  mine.  I've 
only  just  got  to  understand  him,  and  I  like  him."  He  re- 
fused to  be  drawn  into  any  argument  that  touched  too 
intimately  on  his  joint  past  with  Mrs.  Benson. 

"You're  just  saying  that  to  irritate  me!"  Up  to  this 
point  her  look,  even  if  it  had  had  plenty  of  iron  in  it,  had 
been  free  from  mythological  suggestions.  "Well — you'll 
be  at  the  wedding  to-night!"  With  these  words  a  whole 
family  of  sphinxes  and  basilisks  suggested  their  presence 
within  her  woman's  soul.  "I  have  your  word — your 
solemn  promise  as  a  gentleman — haven't  I?" 

Francis,  retrograding  a  shade  into  the  green-yellow 
borderland,  nodded  his  head.  It  was  the  truth  and  she 
had  gauged  well  his  regard  for  a  solemn  promise  before 
she  exacted  one. 

"Well,  we'll  see!"    With  white,  tightly  compressed  lips 

259 


Second    Youth 


she  turned  to  go;  but  her  emotions  got  the  better  of  her. 
She  turned  back  toward  him,  reckless,  gleaming  at  eyes, 
flaming  red  at  cheeks. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  do?"  she  demanded. 
"I  am  going  to  speak  out — before  the  minister — before 
Whiggie — before  everybody !  I  am  going  to  say  you  are 
the  man  I  should  marry  before  God  and  man,  you,  yes, 
you,  who  promised  me — and  who  alone  can  save  me  from 
marrying  a  drunkard  and  reprobate!  and  that  I  demand 
to  be  married  to  you  at  once,  as  you  promised  me!  I 
shall  never  marry  that  brute,  that  reprobate — I  shall 
never  marry  Whiggie — never — and  you  know  it — you 
know — " 

Her  exclamatoriness  had  trailed  off  with  the  last  few 
words;  her  eyes  had  left  Mr.  Francis's  face  to  look  over 
his  shoulder;  with  one  last  wild,  but  baffled,  distinctly 
baffled,  glare  at  Mr.  Francis  she  swept  away.  So  sweep- 
ing was  her  departure  that  it  was  almost  as  if  she  had  fled. 

Francis  turned  around  to  see  what  she  might  have  seen. 
King  Edward  the  Seventh,  as  impersonated  by  a  McDavitt 
floor-walker,  was  pompously  approaching.  Not  time, 
nor  violence,  nor  any  other  thing  but  King  Edward  had 
conquered  Mrs.  Benson.  It  had  long  been  King  Edward's 
business  to  impress  persons  like  Mrs.  Benson;  she  had 
fallen  before  a  worthy  adversary. 

"Thought  perhaps  she  was  troubling  you  —  been 
watching  her — thought  I'd  just  stroll  up  and  give  her  the 
eye,"  explained  the  near-king,  in  a  confidential  undertone. 
"Excitable  person,  isn't  she?  Trouble  about  some  re- 
turn?" 

"Something,"  said  Francis,  "like  that." 

"McDavitt's  is  right — no  cut  dress-goods  should  be  re- 
turned," decreed  the  king.  "Some  of  these  cheap  stores 

260 


Second    Youth 


that  are  doing  it  are  laying  up  trouble  for  themselves. 
Did  she  wish  to  make  a  complete  return,  or  was  she  willing 
to  take  an  exchange?" 

"She  wanted  an  exchange — but  under  impossible  con- 
ditions," said  Francis,  and  departed  the  Presence.  He 
was  surprised  by  his  ability  to  be  facetious,  even  when  the 
opportunity  had  been  forced  upon  him.  He  did  not  feel 
particularly  facetious. 

Nor  did  he,  on  the  other  hand,  feel  particularly  crushed. 
He  had  lost  some  of  his  ideas  of  honor  along  with  some  of 
his  idealism;  once  he  might  have  gone  to  that  wedding,  as 
he  had  solemnly  promised,  even  if  the  heavens  fell  for  it; 
now  he  was  not  so  sure  that  he  would  go. 

Why,  he  couldn't  go;  he  had  an  engagement  to  call  at 
the  Remmicks'  that  very  evening!  It  was  a  pleasant  idea. 
He  would  just  write  Mrs.  Benson  a  note  and  despatch  it 
by  a  messenger-boy,  saying  that  he'd  entirely  forgotten, 
when  he  agreed  to  come  to  her  wedding,  that  he  had  a 
previous  engagement,  and  he  hoped  she  and  Whiggie 
would  get  on  just  as  well  without  him. 

He  strolled  across  the  department,  full  of  strategy. 

And  another  messenger-boy  might  bear  to  Miss  Helen 
Remmick  the  information  that,  because  of  the  unexpected 
wedding  of  two  old  friends  which  he  had  promised  to  at- 
tend, he  knew  she'd  forgive  him  if  he  put  off  calling  on  her 
until  some  time  the  next  week.  That  would  give  Miss 
Remmick  time  to  see  that  she  and  he  had  made  a  mistake 
the  previous  evening.  Next  week  he  might  discover  that 
he  had  another  previous  engagement,  thus  getting  another 
breathing-spell — which  would  be  a  kindness  to  both  the 
girl  and  himself. 

"Previous  Engagement!"  murmured  Francis,  with  ap- 
preciation. He  had  discovered  Previous  Engagement. 

261 


Second    Youth 


It  was  almost  as  good  a  friend  to  a  born  bachelor  as  Pipe 
and  Cane. 

And  that  unexpected  wedding  would  go  well  in  a  note  to 
Miss  Baumann,  too;  there,  also,  a  breathing-space  was 
necessary.  Three  notes,  three  messenger-boys,  three 
Previous  Engagements — and  he  might  yet  call  his  soul  his 
own! 

He  took  the  elevator  down-stairs  and  got  himself  a  box 
of  expensive,  business-like  stationery  at  the  stationery  de- 
partment near  the  main  entrance.  He  was  still  ripening 
his  pleasant  acquaintance  with  Previous  Engagement 
when  he  returned  to  his  own  office. 

Mr.  Remmick  had  gone  out  with  Mr.  Gladden,  as  he 
expected;  but  Miss  Barney  had  returned.  He  sat  down 
at  his  own  desk,  armored  by  the  optimism  that  his  new 
friendship  with  Previous  Engagement  gave  him,  and  be- 
gan to  write  social  correspondence.  He  wrote  first: 

DEAR  Miss  BAUMANN, — Two  very  old  and  intimate  friends 
of  mine  are  to  be  married  this  evening,  and  they  remind  me  that 
I  had  promised  to  attend,  although  I  had  forgotten  it.  I'm 
sure,  in  view  of  this  previous  engagement,  you'll  forgive  me 
if  I  don't  come  to  the  library  this  evening,  as  I'd  hoped  and 
expected  to.  I  am  disappointed,  and  trust  it  is  only  post- 
poned. 

The  note  seemed  to  meet  the  needs  of  the  occasion. 
He  read  it  over  several  times,  glancing  at  Miss  Barney's 
lingerie-waisted  back  absent-mindedly  between  readings. 
Miss  Barney  was  typing  from  notes.  Mr.  Remmick  had 
given  her  something  to  do,  it  seemed;  possibly  if  he, 
Francis,  had  given  her  something  to  do  there  need  have 
been  no  unpleasantness  between  them. 

He  wrote  the  second  note: 

262 


Second    Youth 


DEAR  MRS.  BENSON, — I'm  sorry  to  say  that  a  previous  en- 
gagement which  I  have  just  remembered  and  which  was  forced 
out  of  my  mind  by  my  pleasure  to  see  that  you  and  Mr.  Whig- 
gam  seemed  so  fond  of  each  other  will  prevent  me  from  par- 
ticipating in  your  marriage  this  evening.  Please  apologize  to 
Mr.  Whiggam  for  me  especially.  I  shall  hope  to  see  both  of 
you  after  you  are  married. 

He  admired  that  note  even  more  than  the  other.  It 
seemed  to  fit  like  an  old  shoe.  And  there  wasn't  a  word  of 
it  that  wasn't  the  exact  truth. 

He  began  on  the  third  note.  That  was  harder  to  write, 
much  harder.  He  had  spoiled  several  pieces  of  note- 
paper  before  he  achieved  a  result  that  seemed  even  half- 
way satisfactory.  He  read  it  over,  scowling,  forgetting 
even  the  presence  of  Miss  Barney.  He  had  written: 

DEAR  Miss  REMMICK, — Two  old  and  intimate  friends  were  in 
this  morning.  Much  to  my  surprise  and  pleasure,  they  are 
going  to  be  married  this  evening  at  the  residence  of  the  bride, 
who  was  formerly  my  boarding-house  keeper  and  with  whom 
J  was  very  friendly.  They  expect  me,  of  course,  to  be  present. 
It  was  the  impression  of  the  groom,  Mr.  Archibald  P.  Whiggam, 
that  I  had  promised  to  attend  the  marriage  two  days  before 
last  night,  so  it  seems  that  I  ought  to  consider  it  a  previous 
engagement. 

I  hope,  under  the  circumstances,  you  will  not  mind  if  I  do  not 
come  out  this  evening.  I  think  we  should  have  time  to  think 
awhile  in  cold  blood,  anyway.  As  I  reminded  you  last  evening, 
I  am  thirty-six,  nearly,  you  are  not  quite  eighteen — I  am  twice 
as  old  as  you  are,  even  if  I  behaved  as  if  I  were  twice  as  young 
most  of  the  time  last  evening.  I  must  tell  you  that,  the  more 
I  have  thought  about  it,  the  more  sure  I  am  that  we  are  quite 
wrong,  and  that  you  will  thank  me  some  day  for  persuading 
you  that  we  were  quite  wrong,  and  for  begging  you  not  to  think 
of  me  in  that  light.  Nevertheless,  I  will  be  glad  to  call  some 
time  next  week  if  you  still  think  it  advisable,  but  I  cannot 
help  hoping  that  you  will  decide  it  will  not  be. 

263 


Second    Youth 


"It  may  be  harsh,"  muttered  Mr.  Francis,  forgetting 
that  he  was  not  alone;  "but  it's  a  kindness — a  man  has  to 
have  a  little  iron  in  his  disposition  even  if  he's  going  to  be 
kind!" 

Miss  Barney  turned  around,  with  a  slight  creaking  of  her 
revolving-chair,  to  face  him  across  his  desk. 

"What  was  it  you  was  saying?  I  didn't  quite  hear, 
Mr.  Francis,"  she  said. 

"I  was  talking  to  myself,  I  guess — way  old  men  have, 
you  know."  Francis,  much  pleased  at  the  change  in  her, 
smiled  ingratiatingly. 

She  was  subdued,  saddened;  there  was  no  hint  of 
sphinx-like  things  in  her  eyes.  Something  had  given  her  a 
chastened  and  melancholy  spirit. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  tell  you — I  was  wrong — I  always 
intended  to  give  them  to  you,  anyway,"  said  Miss  Barney, 
covering  her  big  blue  eyes  until  the  long  eyelashes  swept 
her  plump  cheeks.  She  looked  up  again,  clear-eyed, 
humbled;  the  coquetry  that  had  always  seemed  an  essen- 
tial part  of  her  had  been  swept  away  clean,  leaving  her 
stark,  graceless,  without  some  adornment  that  her  piquant 
little  face  demanded.  Francis  waited  for  her  to  explain. 

"  I  went  to  Paterson  last  night  and  heard  Billy  Sunday." 

"Billy  Sunday?" 

"Yes — the  great  evangelist,  you  know;  and  he — he 
showed  me  up  to  myself,"  she  explained.  "I've  been 
mean,  and  catty,  and  conniving,  and  I  haven't  played  the 
game  on  the  level.  So  here  they  are!"  Her  hands  had 
been  fumbling  at  the  front  of  her  white  lingerie  waist. 
She  brought  out  a  letter,  then  another,  and  leaned  forward 
to  toss  them  on  to  Mr.  Francis's  desk.  "I'm  sorry — 
I  always  meant  to  give  them  to  you  some  time — 
they  both  came  yesterday — but  you  can't  deny  I  had  some 

264 


Second    Youth 


right  to  feel  like — like  getting  something  on  you — after 
the  way  you  treated  me!"  Her  disjointed  explanations 
reached  a  crescendo  with  the  reminder  of  how  he  had 
treated  her.  Now  that  she  had  made  restitution  she 
became  much  like  her  familiar  self. 

"They're  both  from  women,  anyway!"  she  commented, 
tartly. 

Francis  picked  them  up,  one  in  either  hand,  and  looked 
at  them.  One  was  in  a  dark  blue  envelope,  with  name 
and  address  written  squarely,  heavily,  almost  like  black- 
face print.  The  white  other  one  was  addressed  in  a 
round,  bold,  flowing  hand  that  connected  it  with  a  certain 
short  note  pinned  on  one  of  the  pages  of  his  diary. 

"Thank  you — thank  you  very  much,  Miss  Barney,"  he 
said,  slipping  them  into  his  pocket,  beginning  to  gather  up 
the  notes  he  had  just  written.  "  I  know  you  had  reason 
to  feel — feel  irritated  at  me.  I've  tried  to  apologize,  and 
I  would  have  tried  harder,  if  you  hadn't  seemed — " 

"Oh,  we  can  talk  it  all  out  as  we  go  out  to  Coney  this 
evening,"  she  interrupted;  the  suggestion  of  a  sphinx, 
a  very  small  and  gentle  one,  had  returned  to  her  big,  blue, 
steady  eyes. 

Francis  stammered,  "But — after  what  happened — I 
supposed,  of  course,  that  you  wouldn't  consider  going — 
with  me!" 

"We'll  have  it  out  as  we  go  out  to  Coney!"  she  re- 
peated. There  was  something  about  her  that  resembled 
something  about  Mrs.  Benson,  something  that  made  Mr. 
Francis  tremble  as  before  a  superior  power.  "We'll  go 
out  on  the  boat — you  can  meet  me  down  at  the  Battery 
pier,  and  we'll  take  the  eight-o'clock  boat.  It's  a  good 
place  to  talk  over  such  things." 

Francis  had  faced  that  look,  that  tone,  in  another,  had 

18  265 


Second    Youth 


faced  it  and  endured  it  until  the  cuticle  had  been  rubbed 
from  his  endurance. 

"We'll  do  no  such  thing!"  he  declared,  hotly;  and  at 
once  was  surprised  and  sorry  that  he  had  been  so  hot. 
"Really,  I  can't,  Miss  Barney!"  he  begged,  rather  than 
announced,  searching  his  mind  for  reasons.  "The  fact 
is — I  have  a  previous  engagement!" 

That  last  was  a  pure  inspiration;  he  became  monarch 
of  all  he  surveyed,  master  of  his  own  destiny,  merely  by 
uttering  those  two  magic  words.  He  got  his  writing- 
paper  and  completed  notes  in  hand;  he  rose  to  go;  the 
difficulty  was  all  cleared  up. 

For  the  space  of  perhaps  two  seconds  it  was  cleared  up. 
"A  previous  engagement!"  repeated  Miss  Barney;  she  had 
been  speechless,  it  appeared,  only  because  she  was  speech- 
less with  surprise  at  his  shamelessness.  "A  prev — ious 
engage — ment!  You  have  the  nerve  to  tell  me  you  have  a 
previous  engagement  after — after —  Why,  what  do  you 
think  I  am!  You  think,  just  because  you've  got  a  new 
job  offered  to  you,  you  can  lord  it  around!  If  you  don't 
keep  your  engagement  with  me  this  evening  I'll  report  to 
Mr.  Remmick  how  you've  been  treating  me  during  his 
absence!  Oh,  I've  thought  how  I  can  get  around  you. 
I'm  not  such  a  little  innocence  as  I  may  seem.  A  girl 
doesn't  work  in  offices  five  years  without  finding  out  some- 
thing about  men!" 

Francis  had  reached  the  office  door  just  as  Miss  Barney 
reached  her  suggestion  about  Mr.  Remmick;  he  had 
intended  to  open  the  door  and  escape,  but  the  remark 
about  Mr.  Remmick  prevented.  In  the  background  of 
his  mind  he  had  fought  with  a  suspicion  that  she  might 
tell  Mr.  Remmick.  He  remembered  similar  cases;  nor 
was  the  memory  pleasant. 

266 


Second    Youth 


"Previous  engagement!"  Miss  Barney  continued,  lower- 
ing her  voice,  becoming  more  calm  as  she  noticed  the 
effect  of  her  introduction  of  Mr.  Remmick's  name  on  him. 
"You'll  think  previous  engagement  if  I  confess  all  to  Mr. 
Remmick!  If  you  don't  promise  me  you'll  meet  me  at 
eight  o'clock  on  the  Battery  pier  I'll  call  up  Mr.  Remmick 
this  very  afternoon  and  tell  him  all  about  it!  Now 
you'd  better  promise!"  She  softened  still  more;  pre- 
cisely in  Mrs.  Benson's  way,  she  softened  in  proportion 
as  she  was  sure  she  had  him  where  he  couldn't  escape. 

Francis  hesitated  only  a  moment;  even  though  he  dis- 
tinctly felt  a  fainting  sensation  and  knew  that  large,  icy 
drops  of  sweat  were  beading  out  on  his  brow,  he  was  not 
beyond  the  ability  to  rationalize.  Rationally  considered, 
there  seemed  to  be  only  one  thing  to  do. 

"Very  well,  then;  I'll  meet  you  at  eight  o'clock,"  he 
agreed,  and  went  away.  He  would  meet  her  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  do  the  best  he  could  to  show  her  the  errors 
of  her  ways;  if  she  was  still  relentless,  as  he  feared  from 
experience  with  a  person  who  somewhat  resembled  her 
that  she  would  be,  he  would  explain  matters  to  Mr. 
Remmick  himself. 

"Previous  Engagement,"  muttered  Francis  to  himself, 
almost,  but  not  quite,  forgetting  the  two  letters  in  his 
pocket,  "is  more  valuable  when  written  than  when  ap- 
plied face  to  face.  It  can  be  overworked." 

He  fished  out  the  letters,  standing  near  the  spot  where 
he  had  shortly  before  left  Mrs.  Benson,  and  tore  open 
the  one  in  the  white  envelope.  He  gained  a  certain 
vague  idea  that  he  was  being  apologized  to,  that  the 
writer  had  been  very  busy,  terribly  disturbed,  and  his 
presence  on  West  End  Avenue  had  tended  to  increase 
her  troubles;  he  gained,  suddenly,  a  more  definite  idea, 

267 


Second    Youth 


the  idea  that  he  was  invited  to  spend  the  week-end  with 
friends  in  Woodbridge,  in  the  Catskills,  with  whom  she 
was  stopping;  that  he  could  leave  New  York  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and  arrive  in  Woodbridge  at 
seven  o'clock  that  evening — and  that  she'd  be  waiting 
for  him  if  he'd  let  her  know  in  advance  that  he  was 
coming. 

Francis  sat  down  in  the  little  low-backed  customers' 
stool  where  he  had  sat  while  Whiggam  played  disturbed 
old  hen  to  his  sickly  chicken.  Blank  of  face,  almost  blank 
of  mind,  he  sat  there,  staring  across  the  high,  white- 
pillared  place  of  silks. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  he  was  handing  a  telegram  to  a 
clerk  in  an  office  five  blocks  from  McDavitt's.  He  tele- 
graphed Mrs.  Adelaide  Winton  Twombly: 

Kind  invitation  delayed:  ;just  received.  Arrive  at  7  this 
evening. 


XVI 

HE  MEETS  A  LADY  WITH  AN  EYE,  A  GENTLEMAN  IN  KNEE- 
PANTIES,    AND    A    THIRD    PERSON,    WITH    ALL    OF 
WHOM   HE   HOLDS   HIGH   CONVERSE 

DURING  the  short  wait  at  Kingston  he  fortified  him- 
self with  a  glass  of  milk  and  a  piece  of  his  favorite 
blueberry  pie  a  la  mode  at  the  station  lunch-counter. 
There  was  a  scant  half-hour,  on  the  branch  road  that 
wound  from  Kingston  up  into  the  Catskills,  between 
Kingston  and  Woodbridge.  The  remaining  time  was  suf- 
ficient for  Mr.  Francis  to  get  himself  well  in  hand. 

He  had  been  too  busy  stocking  to  take  stock  of  himself 
between  eleven-thirty  and  four  o'clock,  too  blank  and 
exhausted  and  interested  in  getting  used  to  the  result 
of  his  stocking  to  really  take  hold  of  himself  during  the 
two  hours'  ride  up  the  Hudson. 

The  result  of  his  stocking  was  apparent  in  a  new  suit, 
a  "pinch-back"  summer  suit  of  dark  homespun  that 
fitted  him  almost  as  well  as  the  tailored  suit  had;  a  new 
yellow-leather  grip,  tasteful  and  expensive;  a  new  black 
four-in-hand  that  had  cost  a  dollar,  and  looked  it;  new 
black  silk  socks;  new  helio-striped  habutai  silk  shirt, 
price  $7.50;  new  white  canvas  oxfords  reinforced  with  tan 
leather,  which  the  intelligent  clerk  at  Whitman's  had 

assured  him  were  proper  for  the  country,  and  very  reason- 

269 


Second    Youth 


able  at  $6,  too.  In  the  grip  were  two  pairs  of  mercerized 
pajamas,  at  $3  per  pair;  two  more  pairs  of  silk  socks, 
one  white;  three  assorted  neckties;  one  mercerized  "sport" 
shirt  with  turn-down  collar  and  short  sleeves,  $1.50;  two 
suits  of  linen-mesh  underwear  at  $2  each;  one  traveling 
safety  razor,  with  shaving  soap  and  brush  in  nickeled 
boxes,  all  in  a  grain-leather  case,  $10;  one  pair  bedroom 
moccasins,  tastefully  ornamented  on  the  toes  with  red- 
and-green-silk  arrow-heads,  $2;  one  "Reach'em"  tooth- 
brush; one  tube  Dynol  tooth-paste;  one  box  Bourquenot's 
"Elite"  chocolates,  $1;  one  dozen  short-stemmed  Amer- 
ican Beauty  roses,  $6;  one  interesting-looking  new  novel, 
$1.50.  Mr.  Francis  was  not  entering  unprepared  on  what 
might  well  be  the  crowning  adventure  of  his  life. 

"Seventy-nine-sixty  from  one  hundred  and  fifty — call 
it  seventy  dollars,"  calculated  Mr.  Francis,  looking  out  of 
the  car  window.  "  On  seventy  dollars  I  ought  to  do  all 
right.  Yes,  I  am  not  badly  prepared,  on  the  whole,  con- 
sidering that  it  was  necessary  to  restock  on  such  short 
notice."  He  became  more  serious.  "Only — let's  see — 
ninety-eight  dollars  left  in  the  bank — and  I  had  nearly 
twelve  hundred  just  a  few  short  months  ago,"  he  com- 
mented, sadly,  to  his  own  face  in  the  window,  brought 
out  by  the  darkness  of  a  rock  cut.  "Still,  if  a  man's 
going  to  live,  he  has  to  spend!  Many  of  my  old  things 
were  not  suitable  for  a  man  earning  one  hundred  dollars 
a  week — even  if  Mrs.  Benson  would  finally  have  consented 
to  let  me  have  them." 

He  began  to  plan  his  opening  line  of  conversation, 
rendered  a  little  dizzy  by  an  ecstatic  lightness  that  ex- 
panded in  him  as  he  remembered  to  whom  that  prepared 
line  of  conversation  would  lead. 

"I'll  say  that  it  was  a  surprise,  of  course,"  he  told 

£70 


Second    Youth 


himself;  "the  greatest  surprise  that  ever  happened  to 
me — and  the  pleasantest.  Yes,  on  the  whole,  I'll  say, 
'This  is  about  the  most  surprising  and  pleasant  thing  that 
ever  happened  to  me,  Miss  Winton!'  That  will  do  very 
well." 

He  was  silent  awhile,  clasping  and  pressing  his  long 
hands  with  growing  nervousness.  His  hands  were  cold 
and  moist.  He  took  out  a  folded  handkerchief  and 
wiped  them;  his  hands  must  not  be  clammy  when  he 
shook  hands — with  her! 

The  more  he  thought  of  "her"  the  colder  and  clammier 
they  became.  He  decided  to  think  of  something  else. 

Now  he  had  left  things  back  in  New  York  in  very 
decent  shape,  very  good  shape,  considering.  Notes  had 
gone  to  Mrs.  Benson,  Miss  Remmick,  Miss  Baumann, 
Miss  Barney — that  last  one  he  had  arranged  to  have  de- 
livered just  before  six  o'clock,  to  decrease  the  likelihood 
of  a  telephone-call  on  Mr.  Remmick.  Yes,  everything, 
thanks  to  Miss  Barney's  kindness  in  letting  him  have  his 
own  letters,  had  turned  out  very  well. 

He  remembered  suddenly  that  there  had  been  two  let- 
ters, one  of  which  he  had  somehow  forgotten  to  read. 
He  got  out  both  Miss  Winton 's  letter  and  the  blue  one, 
rejoicing  a  little,  incidentally,  in  the  feel  of  the  heavy 
silk  skeleton-lining  of  his  new  coat. 

The  blue  envelope  contained  a  dozen  lines  on  blue 
note-paper;  even  before  he  had  glanced  at  the  signature 
— and  he  glanced  at  the  signature  as  soon  as  he  opened 
the  note-paper  flat — he  knew  that  the  note  was  from  Miss 
Baumann. 

"Dear  Mr.  Francis,"  he  read,  in  her  plain,  stiff,  print- 
like  hand:  "I'm  going  to  be  very  busy  this  Saturday 
evening — I  find  I  had  forgotten  some  things  I  intended 


Second    Youth 


to  do — so  would  it  be  all  right  if  you  postponed  your  call 
until  next  Tuesday,  or  perhaps  next  Saturday,  a  week 
from  the  coming  Saturday? 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  our  friendship  if  we 
didn't  see  each  other  for  a  while.  You're  nothing  like 
the  butler  in  Miss  Julia — I  hope  you  know  your  Strind- 
berg — but  I  fear  I  suffer  from  some  of  her  natural  reactions. 
Let's  try  to  be  perfectly  conventional  when  we  meet  again. 
Yours,  with  esteem,  Rose  Baumann." 

Francis  didn't  know  his  Strindberg,  didn't  even  know 
anybody  else's  Strindberg.  He  stored  the  name  up  in 
his  memory  for  future  reference,  and  thanked  Rose 
Baumann  silently  for  her  letter.  She  was  a  good  sort. 
Perhaps,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Miss  Winton — 

"You  conceited  fool!"  he  interrupted  himself;  "she 
never  had  a  particle  of  real  love  for  you,  and  she  never 
would  have — any  more  than  you  have,  or  ever  would  have 
for  her!" 

He  sat,  for  a  little  time,  thinking  about  her.  She  was, 
in  ways,  a  great  enigma,  more  enigmatic  than  Miss 
Barney  or  even  Mrs.  Benson  at  their  sphinxiest.  Why 
was  she  still  "Miss"  Baumann  if  she  had  been  married? 
Why  had  she  seemed  to  enjoy  his  holding  her  hand,  just 
before  he  started  to  go,  and  didn't,  that  most  eventful 
evening?  He  had  intuition  enough  to  know  that  it 
wasn't  because  she  loved  him.  Perhaps  she  was,  in  some 
measure,  like  a  man.  "Perhaps  she  is  even  more  ad- 
vanced than  Miss  Winton,"  he  told  himself,  and  let  it  go 
at  that. 

He  had  had  a  nervous  shock,  followed  by  a  relapse, 
after  the  flagman  had  called  each  of  the  stations  since 
they  left  Kingston.  "  Woo'b'idge !"  called  the  flagman  at 

last,  as  the  train's  motion  eased  in  response  to  a  grinding 

272 


Second    Youth 


of  brakes,  and  Francis  got  out  into  the  aisle  with  the 
knowledge  that  this  time,  at  least,  there  would  be  no 
relapse. 

Cane  in  right  hand,  new  yellow  grip  in  left,  straw  hat 
set  level  on  his  head,  he  made  his  way  down  the  aisle 
among  the  other  leaving  passengers.  Quite  a  number 
seemed  to  be  leaving,  he  noticed;  Woodbridge  must  be 
a  larger  station  than  most  they  had  passed.  He  was  glad, 
at  least,  he  had  given  up  wearing  his  gold-rimmed  glasses. 
They  always  had  a  tendency  to  slip  off  when  he  became 
nervous,  possibly  because  the  bridge  of  his  nose  perspired 
a  bit,  as  well  as  his  forehead;  and  he  would  have  had  no 
hand  free,  just  then,  to  manage  if  they  had  been  slipping, 
in  the  familiar  way,  toward  a  fall. 

When  he  reached  the  brick  platform  he  stopped  and 
looked  both  ways,  but  he  saw  no  one  who  reminded  him 
of  Miss  Winton.  He  had  not  anticipated  that  difficulty. 
There  were  perhaps  fifty  people  about,  enough  to  confuse 
his  search  more  or  less.  He  stepped  to  the  town  side  of 
the  platform,  near  the  line  of  waiting  automobiles,  sur- 
reys, and  phaetons;  it  came  over  him  suddenly  that 
he  didn't  even  know  exactly  how  Miss  Winton  would 
look. 

Of  course  she  was  tall,  had  a  straight  profile  except  for 
the  curve  of  her  nose — like  Helen  Remmick's — large, 
steady,  amused  blue-gray  eyes,  and  golden-brown  hair, 
rather  golden  than  brown;  but  she'd  probably  have  on  a 
hat  that  would  conceal  most  of  her  hair,  and  her  hair,  to 
his  flustered  surprise,  had  become  her  most  distinguishing 
characteristic  in  his  memory.  He  couldn't  understand  it. 
The  way  in  which  numerous  and  vital  thoughts  about  a 
person  will  wipe  away  a  purely  physical  memory  had 

never  been  brought  to  his  attention  before.     He  was  well 

273 


Second    Youth 


acquainted  with  Miss  Winton's  soul,  spirit,  mentality; 
he  had  forgotten  her  face! 

At  intervals  he  had  to  say  "No!"  to  men  and  boys 
who  insisted  that  he  wanted  a  "rig"  or  "car."  The 
crowd  thinned  away,  in  cars,  in  "rigs,"  in  a  thin  trickle 
that  ran  along  the  sidewalkless  road  leading  from  the 
station  to  the  few  low  wooden  buildings  of  the  town.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  station  was  plain  country,  as  plain 
and  green  and  wild  as  a  nook  in  Central  Park.  Francis 
lingered,  staring  from  one  end  of  the  deserted  platform 
to  the  other,  leaning  on  his  cane,  holding  his  grip,  looking 
far  more  philosophical  than  he  felt. 

One  car,  a  low-hung  black  roadster,  still  waited  beside 
the  platform,  perhaps  twenty  feet  from  him,  and  a  lady 
was  leaning  forward,  with  one  arm  thrown  over  the 
wheel.  Francis  had  already  noticed  her;  he  turned  to 
look  at  her  again.  Her  hah*  was  very  dark  brown  and  it 
was  blown  about  her  face  by  the  crisp  wind  that  came 
across  the  neighboring  woods. 

Her  dark  hair  and,  somehow,  the  fact  that  she  was 
sitting  in  a  motor-car,  had  limited  Francis's  first  look  to 
one  glance;  but,  as  their  eyes  met  this  second  time,  his 
feet  started,  automatically,  to  take  him  toward  her.  He 
had  recognized  his  lady.  A  little  movement  of  the  arm 
thrown  over  the  wheel,  half  a  beckon,  half  a  start  of  sur- 
prise, showed  him  that  she  had  recognized  him  also. 

He  walked  slowly  to  her,  slipping  the  middle  of  his  cane 
into  the  palm  of  the  hand  that  held  his  grip.  She  reached 
out  her  hand. 

"I  must  apologize!"  he  said,  taking  it;  "I  didn't 
recognize  you — at  first!" 

"Why — nor  did  I  you!"  she  told  him.     She  swung  open 

the  little  door  beside  her,  and  Francis  stepped  into  that 

274 


Second    Youth 


motor-car  precisely  as  he  had  seen  fine  gentlemen  step 
into  their  own  motor-cars  in  New  York.  "I  was  standing 
on  the  platform  until  a  little  while  ago,  too!  I  was  just 
going  when  it  struck  me  that  that  distinguished-looking 
summer  man  in  the  pinch-back  suit  must  be  you!" 

She  laughed,  giving  him  a  glance  of  open  amusement; 
and  yet,  looking  at  her  as  she  turned  a  little  nickeled  lever 
that  set  the  motor  purring,  he  was  strangely  lifted  by 
the  absence  of  something  in  her  amusement,  something 
superior,  something  that  had  stung  villainously  in  the  old 
days. 

"I — I  got  it  especially  to  come  up  here  in!"  he  con- 
fessed. "Maybe  I'm  a  little  self-conscious  in  it  yet." 

"Well — you're  just  as  frank  as  you  used  to  be,  anyway!" 

"Perhaps  I'm  not,"  he  said;  "perhaps  I've  changed  a 
little  in  that  particular.  It  doesn't  pay  to  be  too  awfully 
frank,  does  it?" 

"That  sounds  downright  cynical!"  They  had  turned 
into  the  main  street  of  the  village,  past  a  huge,  green, 
frame  building  labeled  "General  Merchandise,"  past  a 
moving-picture  theater  with  a  bevy  of  lithographed 
"scenes"  decorating  its  front  and  the  surrounding  side- 
walk. "I  hope  you're  not  cynical — that  you  haven't 
lost  your  trust  in  things  along  with  your  eye-glasses!" 

"Oh — I  guess  I  have  quit  wearing  my  glasses  since  I 
saw  you  last.  I  found  I  didn't  need  them  any  more." 

"I  was  trusting  to  recognize  you  by  them.  I  found, 
when  I  came  to  look  for  you,  that  I  hadn't  more  than 
the  faintest  recollection  of  your  face." 

"Why — that's  strange!"  said  Francis.  "Do  you  know, 
I  found  I  hadn't  more  than  the  faintest  recollection  of 
your  face,  either.  It  was  one  of  the  greatest  surprises  of 

my  life.    I  could  have  sworn  I'd  remember  you  per- 

275 


Second    Youth 


fectly;  there  must  be  some  cause — some  psychological 
cause,  back  of  it,"  concluded  Mr.  Francis,  so  absorbed 
in  his  discovery  that  he  did  not  realize  he  was  making 
his  driver  rather  limp.  "  It  is  not  natural  that  one  should 
forget  so  completely,  so  soon,  a  face  that  means  so  much 
to — to  a  man.  I've  been  reading  a  good  deal  of  James's 
Psychology  lately,  but  I  don't  remember  running  across 
an  explanation  of  that  phenomenon.  However,  my 
memory  isn't  what  it  might  be — and  I've  had  a  good  many 
troubles  to  distract  my  mind,  to  tell  the  truth!" 

Miss  Winton  promptly  accepted  the  offered  tack. 
"Tell  me  about  your  troubles.  I  can  see  plainly  enough 
that  you've  been  going  through  things,  although  I  didn't 
know  whether  they  were  troubles  or  not!"  They  were 
following  a  wide  macadam-surfaced  road,  winding  through 
bits  of  woods,  past  little  green  meadows,  past  farm- 
houses of  various  faded  colors.  Heavy  touring-cars  roared 
past  them.  Miss  Winton  kept  the  roadster  at  a  dignified 
trundle. 

"Oh,  they're  not  interesting — just  things  that  happen 
to  every  man,"  Francis  objected.  He  didn't  want  to 
talk  about  his  troubles — they  were  far  away,  past,  gone. 
He  was  enjoying  another  season  of  calm,  a  season  some- 
thing like  the  one  that  had  introduced  his  latest  series  of 
excitements.  He  enjoyed  the  evening  air,  the  dignified, 
silent  progress  of  the  roadster,  the  bars  of  orange-gleaming 
sunlight  that  crept  between  heavy  green  foliage  to  slash 
and  splotch  the  fawn-colored  macadam  of  the  highway. 
"This  is  good  enough — just  going  through  this,"  he  said, 
"with  all  this  beauty  and  peacefulness  about." 

She  gave  him  a  glance,  a  glance  of  some  slight  archness, 
as  if  she  suspected  that  he  was  including  her  in  the  "beauty 

and  peacefulness";  but  he  wasn't,  at  least  not  in  a  way  to 

276 


Second    Youth 


justify  her  archness.  He  was  looking  across  the  blue, 
misty  hills  to  north  and  westward. 

As  for  Miss  Winton,  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  com- 
bined with  the  beauty  and  peacefulness,  that  she  lost  her 
personality  in  it,  became  part  of  the  evening's  bene- 
diction, of  the  vesper  song  of  a  robin  on  a  high  twig,  of  a 
fleece  of  chiffon-like  cloud  that  floated  in  the  soft  turquoise- 
messaline  vault  of  the  sky.  Always,  in  his  joy,  he  had 
wanted  to  be  alone;  now  his  joy  became  a  dim,  over- 
whelming rapture  because  he  had  found  the  one  person 
in  the  world  he  wanted  to  share  it  with  him. 

"It's — it's  superb!"  he  said,  glancing  at  her  with  hazel 
eyes  that  threatened  to  swim.  "You  know,  I  always, 
until  I've  been  so  upset  lately  with  one  thing  or  another, 
used  to  be  crazy  about  Central  Park!" 

"It  is — beautiful  and  peaceful,"  she  said,  surprised,  a 
little  amused,  but  beginning  to  understand  him.  "  I  came 
up  here  because  of  that — and  I  found  what  I  came  for. 
I  dare  say  you  saw  some  of  my  own  troubles  hashed  up 
in  the  New  York  papers?" 

"I've  never  formed  the  habit  of  newspaper-reading — 
I  wish  you'd  tell  me — explain  some  of  those  things — I 
heard  some  things — " 

He  had  forgotten  the  landscape,  now,  and  the  weather, 
and  the  robin,  too. 

"Why  should  I  talk  about  my  troubles — disturb  this 
heavenly  calm  with  my  troubles — any  more  than  you 
should  disturb  it  with  yours?" 

"But  yours  are,  of  course,  more  interesting!" 

She  laughed  at  that.  Looking  at  her,  he  saw  that  there 
were  a  few  gray  strands  in  the  brown  hair  that  the  breeze 
blew  back  from  her  temples.  There  were  some  little  lines 

around  her  eyes,  too,  that  he  didn't  remember  having  seen 

277 


Second    Youth 


before,  and  a  faint  line  at  the  down-turned  corner  of  her 
mouth.  He  studied  her  frankly.  She  was  changed  in 
more  than  the  color  of  her  hair.  He  wanted  to  smooth 
her  hair,  the  gray  strands,  especially,  to  smooth  out 
the  little  wrinkles  around  her  eyes  and  at  the  corners 
of  her  mouth.  She  was  good,  brave,  pure,  and  life  had 
not  dealt  kindly  with  her.  He  loved  her  with  all  his 
heart. 

Faint  color  came  up  into  the  cheek  nearest  him,  but  she 
did  not  interrupt  his  wholly  absorbed,  wholly  adoring 
contemplation  of  her.  Of  course  she  could  not  see,  with- 
out interrupting,  that  it  was  wholly  adoring;  perhaps  she 
suspected  it.  Francis  struggled  with  a  temptation  to  put 
both  his  arms  around  her. 

"Well — I've  changed  quite  a  little,  haven't  I?"  she  said 
at  length,  without  turning.  "How  have  I  changed?'* 

He  was  startled,  abashed  for  his  rudeness.  "Why — 
excuse  me  for  staring — I  was  just  looking — " 

He  reminded  himself  of  the  replies  of  many  ladies  to 
whom  he  had  offered  his  services  when  a  salesman. 
"Why,  I  was  just  looking — "  they  would  say,  and  go  on. 
It  showed  a  disheartening  lack  of  interest.  He  had  not 
used  the  expression  in  that  way.  He  was  not  only  look- 
ing, he  was  ready  to  invest — if  it  took  his  whole  soul  to 
pay  the  price  demanded. 

"Well,"  she  repeated,  "how  have  I  changed?  Please 
tell  me!" 

It  was  not  a  command,  it  was  the  most  gentle  of  re- 
quests. "Why — your  hair  is  darker,  of  course — " 

"Yes;  I've  quit  using  peroxide  in  the  water  I  wash  it 
in.  And  it's  a  little  gray  at  the  temples,  too,  isn't  it?" 

"Not  as  gray  as  mine  would  be  if  it  were  as  long  as 
yours.  I  have  quite  a  few  gray  hairs,  I  notice  of  late. 

278 


Second    Youth 


Yours  is  the  faintest  bit  gray — just  a  strand  of  it.  I  like 
it!" 

"Oh — do  you?  Then  please  go  on!  Have  I  a  little 
wrinkle  at  the  corner  of  my  mouth — and  a  few  crow's- 
feet  under  my  eyes?" 

"Yes,"  he  admitted.  "I  noticed  them,  too.  They're 
very — becoming." 

"And  yet — I  could  have  appeared  before  you  without  a 
gray  hair,  without  a  wrinkle,  without  a  crow's-foot.  Why 
do  you  suppose  I  didn't?" 

"I— really,  I'd  like  to  know!" 

"Because  I  wanted  you  to  see  me  first  at  my  plain 
worst!  Because  I  like  you — and  have  liked  you  tre- 
mendously from  the  first  time  I  laid  eyes  on  you — Roland 
Farwell  Francis!" 

He  was  not  the  same  Francis  who  had  sat  in  paralyzed 
indecision  because  she  chose  to  perch  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair;  and  yet  he  was  much  the  same  in  the  ability  to 
lose  himself,  to  forget  everything  in  the  stress  of  strong 
emotion.  His  arms  leaped  around  her  shoulders,  crushed 
her  to  him;  his  lips  found  her  face;  he  enveloped  like  a 
released  flood,  holding  her,  gasping  and  helpless,  covering 
her  cheek  with  sharp  kisses,  murmuring  between  his  set 
teeth:  "My  dear!  My  dear!  My  dear!" 

The  slow-moving  car  jolted  and  quivered  over  the  rock 
ballast  beside  the  road.  "No — no!"  she  pleaded,  helpless, 
overborne,  terrified,  and  he  felt  her  arms,  her  weak,  soft, 
woman's  arms,  tugging  at  the  wheel.  The  car  came  to  a 
sudden  stop. 

"Well,  then- — "  Her  arms  ceased  to  struggle,  she  lay 
limp,  surrendered,  almost  without  life  it  seemed,  against 
his  breast. 

At  once  the  fierceness  that  had  overcome  both  him  and 

279 


Second    Youth 


her  left  him;  he  smoothed  her  hair,  staring  straight  before 
him,  blinking,  getting  back  his  breath  and  senses.  "Oh — 
I  didn't  mean — I  don't  know  what  it  was!"  he  stammered, 
drawing  back,  sure  that  her  anger  because  of  this  unpro- 
voked attack  would  be  terrible.  "I  must  have  forgotten 
myself!" 

She  lifted  her  head  from  his  shoulder  and  put  up  both 
hands  to  arrange  her  hair.  "  What — what  would  a  woman 
do  without  her  hair?"  she  asked,  with  a  little  helpless  laugh. 
"I'm  glad  I  had  just  sense  enough  left  to  stop  that  car! 
Now  let's  see  if  we  can't  get  it  back  on  the  road." 

It  went  back  on  the  road  with  great  docility  in  response 
to  Miss  Winton's  operation  of  certain  nickeled  mysteries. 

"It's  a  very  well-behaved  car,  to  have  done  nothing 
worse  under  the  circumstances,"  she  informed  Mr. 
Francis.  He  was  waiting,  in  patient  foreboding,  for  the 
chastisement  that  he  had  deserved.  "But,  seriously — " 
Now  it  was  coming;  he  braced  himself.  "Seriously,  my 
dear — "  She  looked  at  him  with  calm,  blue-gray  eyes 
that  held  no  hint  of  blame.  "  I'm  sorry  I  inspired  you  to 
do  that!  It  was  quite  wrong — putting  the  cart  before  the 
horse — for,  you  know,  friendship  is  the  horse,  and  love 
is  the  cart!  Or,  maybe,  love  rides  in  the  cart — and  makes 
the  horse  go!" 

At  another  time  he  might  have  unraveled  these  myster- 
ies, but  not  then. 

"I'm  sorry — I  didn't  mean — " 

"Or  maybe  love  is  the  good  motor  under  the  bonnet, 
and  friendship  and  worldly  possessions  and  everything  else 
are  the  rest  of  the  car!  And  you'll  come  to  grief  if  you 
start  joy-riding  with  nothing  but  a  motor — the  more  grief 
the  stronger  your  motor  is  and  the  more  you  let  it  out!" 

"Yes — that's  true!"  admitted  Francis;    evidently  she 

280 


Second    Youth 


wasn't  going  to  let  him  apologize.  Women,  he  reflected, 
seemed  either  to  care  nothing  for  apologies  or  they  de- 
manded them  and  only  suffered  the  more  for  having  got 
what  they  demanded.  He  remembered  how  Whiggam 
had  managed  Mrs.  Benson.  Well,  Miss  Winton  seemed 
to  want  to  be  managed  in  much  the  same  way — except 
that  she  chose  to  be  the  one  to  decide  whether  apologies 
were  in  order  or  not. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?"  she  asked. 

He  told  her  at  some  length. 

"I  never  imagined  that  any  living  person  could  be  so 
changed  as  you  are  by  just  a  few  short  months!"  she  an- 
nounced, when  he  had  finished.  "You  must  have  been 
undergoing  intensive  culture  down  there  in  New  York! 
Why,  the  way  you  rose  to  a  simple  compliment  just  now, 
Mr.  Francis — why,  you  were  a  perfect  troglodyte!" 

"Oh,"  he  protested — he  had  looked  that  word  up  since 
the  long-past  time  when  she  had  used  it  first  in  his  hearing 
— "I'm  not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  am  I?" 

"And  now  you  know  that  word,  too — how  blank  you 
looked  the  first  time  I  sprang  it  on  you!"  she  commented, 
and  laughed.  She  turned  the  car  into  a  smooth,  brown, 
dirt  road  that  left  the  highway  to  meander  up  a  wooded 
hillside.  "Well,  we'll  be  there  in  a  few  minutes — so  get 
out  your  most  civilized  manner,  Mr.  Troglodyte!"  She 
had  cut  out  the  muffler,  and  the  steady  roar  of  the  exhaust 
as  they  swept  up  the  hillside  made  it  necessary  for  her  to 
speak  near  his  ear;  he  thrilled  with  her  nearness.  "Don't 
be  afraid.  Face  'em  as  if  they  were  mere  customers — 
and  remember  that  I'm  always  at  your  right  hand  to  see 
you  through!" 

That  night,  toward  midnight,  Francis  wrote  in  the  book: 

19  281 


Second    Youth 


Well,  old  horse,  you've  kept  your  head  from  whirling 
ever  since  11.30  this  morning,  so  now  let  her  whirl,  let  her 
whirl!  Met  in  a  motor-car,  motored  up  to  a  regular  old- 
fashioned  castle,  dinner  in  a  room  like  a  small  church — 
whirl,  if  you  want  to,  you've  got  it  coming  to  you !  Here 
I  sit  in  a  room  as  big  as  the  library  in  the  old  house  in 
Astoria,  if  not  bigger;  private  bath,  pier-glass,  windows 
like  church  windows,  including  a  fancy  design  in  the 
middle!  Outside  trees  and  grounds  like  a  cemetery;  even 
some  white  marble  things  stuck  around  to  remind  you  of 
tombstones. 

This  house  is  like  two  houses  joined  together  in  the 
middle,  like  the  Siamese  twins,  or  more  like  a  capital  H. 
Gardens  in  between,  and  a  fountain  in  front;  tennis-court 
out  at  one  side,  and  a  stable  as  big  as  the  old  house  at 
Astoria,  and  with  almost  as  many  windows. 

Expected  a  butler  at  dinner.  They  usually  have  a 
butler  in  the  things  you  read  about  places  like  this, 
but  the  only  one  who  appeared  was  a  young  lady,  very 
neatly  dressed  in  black-and-white. 

"You  see,  we  don't  put  on  any  style,  Mr.  Francis," 
said  Mrs.  Sheva,  the  lady  whose  guest  Miss  Winton  is  and 
whose  guest  I  am  also,  now  that  I  think  of  it.  Neither 
Mrs.  nor  Mr.  Sheva  knows  anything  about  me  except  that 
I  am  a  friend  of  Miss  Winton's.  She  explained  that  she 
didn't  in  the  least  mind  telling  them  that  I  was  a  silk 
buyer;  she  was  going  to  tell  them  later,  but  for  the  present 
she  wanted  to  see  what  they  would  make  of  me.  This 
adds  interest  to  the  proceedings,  and  I  enjoyed  keeping 
them  guessing. 

Discovered  that  Miss  Winton  had  not  expected  me  up 
this  Saturday  when  she  wrote  her  note.  She  merely  meant 
any  Saturday.  She  thought  possibly  I  might  come  up  a 

282 


Second    Youth 


week  from  this  Saturday;  but  she  didn't  seem  put  out 
because  I  had  telegraphed  and  come  at  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity. I'm  afraid  I  did  not  read  her  note  carefully  at 
first.  I  merely  saw  that  I  was  invited  to  see  her,  and  for- 
got everything  else.  I  told  her  how  it  was,  and  she  said 
I  was  forgiven. 

Mrs.  Sheva  has  an  eye.  When  I  was  being  introduced 
she  held  my  hand,  leaned  her  head  a  little  forward  and  a 
little  to  one  side,  and  stared  at  me  exactly  as  I  have  seen 
a  robin  in  Central  Park  stare  at  a  piece  of  red  string  it 
has  mistaken  for  a  worm.  Or  not  exactly  like  that,  either, 
not  as  intelligent.  She  merely  stared  as  if  she  would 
look  into  my  inmost  soul,  screwing  up  her  eyes  and  pursing 
her  mouth. 

She  has  a  large,  dark  eye.  Somehow  I  didn't  think  she 
saw  very  deep  into  me.  People  who  make  a  point  of 
having  an  eye  are  likely  not  to  see  much,  like  our  portly 
floor-walker,  while  those  who  really  see  a  good  deal  are 
more  like  Gladden  and  Remmick,  who  never  appear  to 
be  looking  at  you,  but  nevertheless  you  know  they  have 
you  priced  and  ticketed.  Therefore  I  did  not  quail  before 
Mrs.  Sheva's  eye.  I  merely  smiled  at  her  and  felt  per- 
fectly calm.  She  is  very  good-looking,  but  rather  older 
than  Miss  Winton,  I  judge. 

I  then  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Sheva.  He  is  a  fine- 
looking  man  with  a  large  nose  and  a  Vandyke  beard, 
and  he  had  on  knee-panties,  exactly  like  those  I  used  to 
wear  before  I  put  on  long  pants.  However,  his  stockings 
were  different.  They  were  a  very  good  shade  of  dark 
green,  and  the  tops,  which  were  turned  down  instead  of 
going  up  under  his  pants,  were  ornamented  with  lighter- 
green  squares.  Knee-panties  seemed  to  become  him, 
although  I  never  thought  they  would  look  well  on  a  man. 

283 


Second    Youth 


Mr.  Sheva  is  of  Jewish  extraction,  Miss  Winton  told  me 
afterward,  although  I  would  never  have  known  it,  to 
look  at  him,  and  his  English  was  perhaps  the  most  culti- 
vated I  have  ever  heard.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  talk  to  him, 
just  to  hear  him  pronounce  words.  Still,  Miss  Baumann, 
who  is  also  of  Jewish  extraction,  used  remarkably  fine 
English,  too,  better  than  my  own.  There  are,  of  course, 
Jews  and  Jews,  just  as  there  are  Gentiles  and  Gentiles. 
Mr.  Sheva  said,  while  we  were  at  dinner,  that  it  was  the 
German  in  the  Jew  that  had  got  him  somewhat  disliked, 
many  Jews  had  become  Germanized,  and  when  people 
spoke  of  "Jewish  characteristics"  they  often  meant 
"German  characteristics."  He  said  the  expression,  "The 
German  is  the  Jew  of  Europe,"  was  a  slander  on  the  Jews, 
not  the  Germans.  He  is  very  strongly  pro-Ally,  as  are 
also  Mrs.  Sheva  and  Miss  Winton.  I  said  I  was  a  neutral, 
without  much  information,  and  I  preferred  to  listen  to  their 
opinions  of  the  war  rather  than  to  express  any  of  my  own. 
They  talked  about  little  else,  and  I  learned  much  from  their 
conversation.  I  begin  to  be  strongly  pro-Ally  myself,  but 
I  must  remember  that  I  heard  only  one  side  from  them. 

Once  I  so  far  forgot  myself  as  to  say  that  my  chief 
interest  in  the  war  had  been  to  notice  how  it  disorganized 
the  silk  business;  Miss  Winton  asked  a  question  of  Mr. 
Sheva  at  the  same  time,  but  Mr.  Sheva  noticed  what  I 
had  said. 

"Oh — you're  in  the  silk  business?"  he  said. 

I  had  an  impulse  to  tell  him  of  my  good  fortune  with 
Phillips-Losers,  but  I  remembered  that  Miss  Winton 
wished  to  keep  them  in  the  dark  about  me  for  the  present. 
"I  suspect  you  are  also  a  compatriot  of  mine?"  said,  or 
asked,  Mr.  Sheva.  "At  least,  I  hope  so — for  the  sake  of 
my  racial  vanity!" 

284 


Second    Youth 


I  didn't  quite  get  him.  I  said,  of  course,  I  was  an 
American. 

"Pardon  me — of  course  I  am,  too!"  he  said,  seeming 
embarrassed.  "And  I  am  no  more  a  Jewish- American 
than  my  wife  is  an  English-American — I  have  difficulty 
in  finding  hyphens  enough  around  this  house  to  use  in 
what  little  writing  I  do." 

He  is  a  critic,  I  learn  from  Miss  Winton,  and  his  work 
appears  in  many  of  the  best  magazines.  My  ignorance 
of  all  these  matters  pained  me,  and  I  hereby  vow  to 
reform. 

Mrs.  Sheva  is  a  pure  American,  of  fine  family  connec- 
tions. She  was  formerly  Elsa  Treadwell  Everett,  and  she 
is  a  sister  of  Henry  Everett,  well  known  in  a  literary 
way,  I  understand,  although  I  have  never  read  any  of  his 
books.  She  was  interested  in  welfare  work  in  New  York 
when  she  met  Mr.  Sheva,  but  now  her  main  interest  is  in 
raising  blooded  poultry.  They  have  a  farm-house  and  a 
farmer  on  their  estate,  a  mile  away,  and  Mrs.  Sheva  goes 
there  almost  daily  to  teach  him  how  to  raise  chickens, 
ducks,  turkeys,  etc. 

"It  sounds  humorous,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Winton, 
when  she  told  me  this,  "but,  you  know,  Mrs.  Sheva  can 
tell  even  a  lifelong  Ulster  County  farmer  some  things  he 
doesn't  know  about  raising  poultry.  She  reads  the  books 
about  it,  the  farmer  supplies  the  practical  knowledge,  and 
they  get  on  very  well.  It  is  exactly  like  welfare  work, 
Mrs.  Sheva  says,  and  not  as  wearing  on  the  nerves." 

Mrs.  Sheva  also  has  a  little  boy,  ten  years  old,  and  a 
little  girl,  six,  who  had  retired  for  the  night  when  I  ar- 
rived. Her  children  are  the  real  reason,  of  course,  why 
she  has  given  up  welfare  work  in  New  York. 

Miss  Winton  told  me  the  married  life  of  the  Shevas  was 

285 


Second    Youth 


intensely  interesting  to  her,  but  she  did  not  explain  why. 
They  seem  a  completely  happy  couple;  it  was  a  joy  to 
see  their  fondness  and  deference  for  each  other. 

After  dessert,  which  was  a  wonderful  affair,  all  green 
and  snowy  white  without  being  cold,  Mr.  Sheva  invited 
me  to  play  billiards,  but  Miss  Winton  shook  her  head  at 
me,  and  so  I  declined.  I  would  have  declined,  anyway. 
I  know  nothing  about  billiards  but  the  name  and  that  it 
is  popular  in  aristocratic  clubs  and  private  houses.  Be- 
sides, I  didn't  wish  to  waste  any  of  my  time  away  from 
Miss  Winton. 

"Perhaps  I  could  induce  you  to  take  a  little  moonlight 
stroll  with  me  about  our  grounds?"  he  then  said,  ris- 
ing to  offer  me  a  cigar  from  a  humidor  on  the  sideboard. 
Miss  Winton  did  not  shake  her  head,  although  I  looked 
at  her  to  see  what  she  would  think  about  the  project; 
in  fact,  I  thought  she  nodded.  Nevertheless,  the  re- 
membrance that  I  would  have  only  that  evening,  the  next 
day,  and  the  next  evening  there  made  me  object  to  leaving 
Miss  Winton. 

I  said,  with  perfect  frankness,  "I'd  be  delighted  to, 
Mr.  Sheva,  but  why  couldn't  Miss  Winton  and  Mrs. 
Sheva  come  on  that  stroll,  also?" 

Of  course  it  was  embarrassing.  Everybody  laughed. 
In  the  mean  time,  I  had  accepted  one  of  Mr.  Sheva's 
fine  cigars  without  noticing,  and  Mr.  Sheva  had  lighted 
one  himself.  They  all  immediately  agreed  to  my  sug- 
gestion, and  I  felt  I  hadn't  committed  a  faux  pas,at  least 
not  a  serious  one.  Mr.  Sheva  lit  a  match  for  me  to 
light  my  cigar.  I  laid  it  back  on  the  table.  I  had  not 
yet  put  it  in  my  mouth.  I  remembered  what  previous 
cigars  had  done  to  me,  and  I  wanted  to  keep  my  head 
about  me  that  evening. 

286 


Second    Youth 


"  If  you  won't  mind — if  you  honestly  won't  mind  at  all — 
I'd  much  prefer  to  smoke  a  plain  pipe,"  I  said. 

He  was  very  nice  about  it.  "Mind — I  thank  you  for 
the  suggestion,  Mr.  Francis.  I'd  much  prefer  a  pipe  my- 
self, to  tell  the  truth,"  he  said,  and  thrust  his  just-lighted 
cigar  fire  downward  into  half  a  cup  of  coffee,  completely 
ruining  it,  and  went  and  got  a  pipe  and  a  big  jar  of  to- 
bacco. He  insisted  I  try  some  of  his  tobacco;  and  it  was 
fine. 

Then  we  all  went  walking  a  short  time.  I  tried  to  walk 
with  Miss  Winton,  but  she  so  arranged  it,  entirely  against 
my  will,  that  I  had  to  walk  with  Mrs.  Sheva  while  she 
walked  with  Mr.  Sheva.  She  explained,  afterward,  that 
this  was  proper  under  the  circumstances. 

I  didn't  see  much  of  anything.  I  was  wishing  I  were 
walking  with  Miss  Winton  too  much  even  to  be  chatty 
with  Mrs.  Sheva,  and  that's  the  truth.  And  yet  Mrs. 
Sheva  is  fine,  very  handsome,  tall  and  slim  like  a  girl, 
and  with  a  gift  of  repartee  that  reminded  me  of  McNab 
at  his  best. 

After  we'd  been  walking  a  little  while  Mr.  Sheva  said, 
very  gently,  to  Miss  Winton,  "Would  you  feel  that  we 
were  devastatingly  inhospitable,  dear  lady,  if  Elsa  and  I 
went  down  to  the  village  to  inspect  the  latest  instalment 
of  Woodbridge  movie,  leaving  you  to  entertain  Mr. 
Francis?" 

"  I  should  consider  it  another  token,"  said  Miss  Winton, 
"of  your  native  critical  delicacy  and  insight,  my  dear 
Herbert!" 

"And  you,  my  dear  Mr.  Francis,  would  you — "  began 
Mr.  Sheva. 

I  replied,  hurriedly,  "I  can  think  of  no  more  fitting 
answer  than  the  one  dear  Miss  Winton  has  just  given, 

287 


Second    Youth 


my  dear  Mr.  Sheva!"  Since  everybody  was  calling  every- 
body else  dear,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  get  in  on  it. 
I  felt  bold  and  fearless  and  ready  to  do  anything,  and 
that's  the  truth. 

So  we  left  them  there.  There  was  a  short  cut  much 
nearer  than  the  one  by  the  main  road,  Miss  Winton  said, 
and  she  and  I  walked  back  to  the  house.  We  sat  out  on 
the  stone  pavement,  between  the  two  houses  in  front,  in 
most  comfortable  big  willow  chairs  with  leather  cushions. 

"How  long  have  you  been  smoking  a  pipe — and  carry- 
ing a  cane?"  she  asked  me. 

I  was  somewhat  surprised,  but  I  told  her  as  well  as  I 
could  remember. 

"  You  practise  both  accomplishments  as  if  you  had  been 
born  to  them!"  she  commented;  and  I  thanked  her.  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  been  born  to  them,  as  well  as  to  every- 
thing else  that  surrounded  me.  I  looked  up  at  the  big 
house,  with  its  long  windows,  and  over  the  flower-beds 
and  the  fountain,  a  single  slim  spray  of  white  water  rising 
in  the  middle  of  a  little  pool  edged  around  with  ferns. 
Everything  was  solemn  and  beautiful  in  the  moonlight. 
I  could  not  believe  that  I  would  be  back  in  McDavitt's 
silk  department  the  next  Monday  morning. 

"Tell  me  what's  been  happening  to  you  since  the  middle 
of  last  April,"  she  asked,  but  I  begged  off;  it  wasn't  inter- 
esting. At  least,  I  said,  when  she  still  insisted  it  would 
be  interesting  to  her,  she  ought  to  tell  me  something  about 
her  own  troubles  first.  They  were  really  interesting. 

"I  suppose  they  are  more  damnable,"  she  said,  sur- 
prising me  more  by  the  tone  of  her  voice  than  the  word. 
"And  the  more  damnable  a  thing  is  the  more  interesting 
it  is,  isn't  it?" 

J  said  I  wasn't  sure  about  that, 

288 


Second    Youth 


"Of  course  it  is — where  would  all  our  most  prized 
literature  be  if  it  weren't  for  marital  troubles,  murder, 
and  general  rottenness — where  would  'Hamlet'  and 
'Romeo  and  Juliet'  and  'Othello'  and  'King  Lear' — not 
to  mention  all  the  great  Greek  tragedies — be  if  it  weren't 
for  the  popular  taste  for  scandal?" 

I  said,  "How  about  Dickens?" 

"Yes — Dickens — with  half  his  reputation  founded  on 
human  degradation — and  look  at  Thackeray!  They  talk 
about  Victorian  nursery  literature  when  its  pinnacle  was 
Vanity  Fair!  In  order  to  be  real,  it  seems  to  me,  both 
literature  and  life  have  to  be  scandalous — more's  the 
pity!" 

It  seemed  to  me  that  this  was  only  another  way  of 
stating  the  old  problem  of  good  and  evil,  about  which 
Win.  James  has  many  wise  words  to  say,  and  I  mentioned 
this,  and  added  that  I  wouldn't  be  interested  in  her  life 
because  it  was  scandalous,  if  it  was,  but  because  it  was 
hers — just  as  people  might  be  interested  in  Hamlet  not 
so  much  because  his  life  was  full  of  scandal  as  because  he 
was  an  important  man. 

Now  I  had  already  put  it  all  behind  me,  what  she  told 
me,  when  I  sat  down  to  write.  I  tried  to  understand  it, 
even  when  it  made  me  burn  and  ache  all  over.  I  said 
to  myself,  time  and  again,  "Suppose  I  had  yielded  to 
Mrs.  Benson's  importunities,  and  married  her?"  If  I  had, 
as  I  so  nearly  did,  my  life  might  have  been  much  like  my 
dear  lady's. 

Miss  Winton  yielded  to  Mr.  Twombly's  importunities. 
He  was  like  Mrs.  Benson  in  nu*>t  particulars,  except  that 
he  was  more  mushy  and  not  nearly  so  moral.  However, 
such  things  as  dirty  hands,  objections  to  high-brow 

fiddling,  too  much  waist-line,  a  hot  temper,  and  an  over- 

289 


Second    Youth 


bearing  disposition  are  not  so  often  held  against  a  business 
man.  Perhaps  a  business  man  does  not  need  refinement, 
but  in  that  case  he  should  not  expect  a  refined  woman  to 
love  him.  Or  at  least  not  indefinitely. 

Mrs.  Benson  preferred  the  Empire  vaudeville  to  such 
things  as  high-brow  fiddling,  and  Mr.  Twombly  preferred 
burlesque  shows,  which  was  perhaps  worse.  Miss  Wintoii 
did  not  care  for  burlesque  shows,  nor  for  many  other  things 
he  affected.  Just  the  fact  that  she  was  so  innocent,  so 
horrified  by  his  swearing  and  coarseness  and  drinking  too 
much,  made  him  worse  than  he  was — for  he  was  a  suc- 
cessful man,  eleven  years  older  than  she  was,  and  he  was 
proud,  and  proud  men  are  not  improved  by  young  girls 
who  are  easily  shocked. 

Each  was  bad  for  the  other,  she  said,  and  by  the  end 
of  six  years  of  married  life  both  had  become  thoroughly 
bad.  I  do  not  entirely  believe  this  of  her,  in  spite  of  the 
things  she  told  me  she  had  suffered  and  done,  although 
those  things  were  bad  enough  to  equip  a  literary  master- 
piece. I  will  not  deny  it,  I  nearly  died  when  she  men- 
tioned some  things,  and  her  mouth  was  white  as  her 
handkerchief.  I  kept  asking  myself  what  I  might  have 
done  if  I  had  found  myself  married  to  Mrs.  Benson. 
At  least  she  turned  from  these  things  and  began  to  pull 
herself  up  by  an  interest  in  intellectual  matters,  and  she 
said  that,  without  some  of  her  experiences,  she  would 
never  have  been  able  to  appreciate  the  sort  of  man  I 
seemed  to  be,  she  would  never  have  noticed  me  at  all. 

"If  I'd  had  children,"  she  said,  "I  might  have  been  a 
better  woman — and  I  might  have  continued  to  endure  my 
marriage;  children  are  the  water-tight  compartments 
that  keep  afloat  many  a  wrecked  marriage  and  many  a 
wrecked  woman." 

$90 


Second    Youth 


One  day,  in  the  tenth  year  of  their  married  life,  after 
he  had  treated  her  merely  as  his  housekeeper  and  the 
hostess  for  entertaining  his  business  acquaintances  for 
more  than  six  months,  it  came  over  her  that  she  ought  to 
leave  him.  She  was  reading  Emerson's  essay  on  "Self 
Reliance"  that  day.  She  had  been  brought  up  as  a 
strict  Episcopalian,  and  before  that  day  she  had  never 
fully  appreciated  that  she  and  Twombly  weren't  bound 
together  for  life.  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  she  said,  ought 
to  have  appeared  as  the  co-respondent  in  the  divorce  suit 
Twombly  afterward  brought  against  her. 

That  evening  she  told  Twombly  they  ought  to  separate. 
He  did  not  see  that  a  great  change  had  come  over  her, 
and  promptly  went  down-town  to  the  Auditorium  Annex, 
where  he  was  accustomed  to  go  whenever  she  tried  to 
reason  with  him  about  their  affairs.  They  were  still  living 
in  Chicago,  where  he  had  brought  her  after  their  mar- 
riage in  Terre  Haute,  and  he  had  become  accustomed  to 
live  more  at  the  Auditorium  Annex  than  at  home. 

She  wrote  to  her  father  and  mother  in  Terre  Haute  and 
told  them  something  of  the  state  of  affairs,  which  she  had 
never  hinted  at  before,  and  asked  financial  help  in  getting 
a  divorce.  They  were  horrified,  being  strict  Episcopal- 
ians, and  advised  her  to  remain  faithful  to  her  wedding 
vows.  Then  she  wrote  to  Elsa  Everett  Sheva,  whom 
she  had  known  from  their  school-days  at  a  private  girls' 
school  called  Bryn  Mawr,  and  Mrs.  Sheva  invited  her  to 
visit  them  at  their  apartment  on  West  End  Avenue,  where 
she  stayed  later  after  the  Shevas  had  gone  to  their  summer 
home. 

Twombly  was,  to  her  surprise,  furious  at  her  departure 
without  going  down  to  the  Auditorium  Annex  to  consult 
him.  It  was  his  pride,  she  said — and,  besides,  she  sup- 

291 


Second    Youth 


posed  she  had  been  useful  to  him  in  entertaining  business 
acquaintances  and  keeping  up  their  elaborate  North  Side 
apartment.  He  ordered  her  to  return  to  Chicago  at  once, 
but  she  wrote  him  back  that  he  had  long  since  broken 
his  marriage  contract  with  her,  to  honor,  cherish,  and  be 
faithful  to  her,  and  she  felt  free.  He  retaliated  by  with- 
drawing all  the  money  from  the  bank  on  which  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  draw.  For  a  while  she  tried  to  make 
her  living  writing  book  reviews,  but  she  couldn't  make  even 
pin-money  at  that,  so  she  put  a  detective  on  the  case  and 
brought  suit  for  absolute  divorce,  under  the  New  York 
laws,  asking  for  $20,000  yearly  alimony. 

"It  seemed  to  me  he  owed  me  something — I'd  cer- 
tainly helped  him  to  succeed — and  even  if  I  hadn't  done 
much,  my  time  had  been  so  occupied  that  I  hadn't  been 
able  to  make  myself  economically  useful  except  as  the 
hostess  of  a  rich  man,"  she  explained.  "Through  his 
refusal  to  live  up  to  his  marriage  contract  I  was  robbed 
of  all  I  was  good  for — and,  yes,  I  suppose  there  was  some 
bitterness  in  it,  too!" 

Twombly,  of  course,  started  a  counter-suit.  It  seems 
that  is  customary.  He  kept  the  case  dragging,  and  put 
detectives  to  watch  her,  and  hired  the  hall-boys  in  the 
apartment  where  she  lived  to  give  him  information.  She 
didn't  know  this  at  the  time.  She  was  very  busy,  trying 
to  write  book  reviews,  a  good  many  of  which  she  placed, 
but  there  was  not  much  money  in  it. 

She  had  a  number  of  friends,  but  she  was  lonesome. 
Especially  when  last  spring  came  on  she  became  more 
lonesome.  She  said  one  evening  in  the  little  park  between 
the  Hudson  and  Riverside  Drive,  where  she  was  walking 
— she  walked  a  great  deal,  just  as  I  used  to — she  stood, 

and  looked  out  across  the  Hudson;  it  was  a  warm  March 

292 


Second    Youth 


day,  almost  like  a  June  day  got  into  March  by  mistake, 
such  as  we  sometimes  have  in  good  old  New  York;  and 
she  felt  so  lonesome  and  lonely  that,  just  before  the  elec- 
tric lamps  lighted,  she  suddenly  found  herself  with  both 
arms  stretched  out  and  the  tears  streaming  down  her 
face,  murmuring,  "Man!  Man!  Man!"  under  her 
breath. 

She  said,  of  course,  I  couldn't  understand  the  psy- 
chology of  this — she  didn't  entirely  understand  it  herself. 
But,  from  her  girlhood,  she  had  always  looked  forward  to 
some  man  who  would  be  her  mate  in  body  and  soul;  and 
now  that  she  had  given  up  all  thought  of  Twombly  she 
had  realized  that  he  had  never  filled  that  need  in  her  life; 
and  she  supposed,  just  there  in  that  springlike  twilight, 
all  her  bodily  and  spiritual  yearning  came  to  the  surface. 
I  thought  I  understood.  I  may  perhaps  have  felt  some- 
thing of  what  she  felt,  but  I  could  not  say  a  word. 

"Does  all  this  completely  disgust  you?"  she  asked. 

I  said,  "Good  God,  no!"  and  she  went  on. 

She  had  begun  to  make  most  of  her  own  clothes  in 
order  to  economize,  and  one  day  she  happened  to  drop 
into  McDavitt's,  thinking  their  silks  might  be  just  as  good 
and  perhaps  cheaper  than  the  place  where  she  had  been 
accustomed  to  shop.  It  was  that  day,  that  Monday, 
March  13th,  when  she  first  saw  me  and  I  first  saw  her. 

My  talk  about  the  silkworms  attracted  her.  On  what 
little  things  the  most  important  things  in  life  depend! 
If  I  had  not  happened  to  read  that  article  about  silk- 
worms in  the  American  Silk  Journal  she  might  never 
have  noticed  me. 

"You  were  very  pretty — not  handsome,  just  pretty 
and  old-fashioned,"  she  told  me;  "in  fact, you  seemed  the 
beau-ideal  of  a  silk  salesman,  and  your  moralistic  patter 

293 


Second    Youth 


about  fine  silk  from  dirty  little  worms  went  right  to  the 
sorest  spot  in  my  soul. 

"Then  I  came  again,  and  liked  you  even  better — you 
were  so  nice,  and  pretty,  and  bashful,  and  genteel!  And 
then  I  came  the  third  time — and  saw  my  late  husband  in 
the  act  of  his  famous  department-store  electioneering.  I 
had  just  entered  the  silk  department;  I  looked  down  the 
long  aisle,  past  where  you  stood,  and  saw  you  watching 
my  late  husband  and  that  pretty  salesgirl  in  the  toilet 
department. 

"For  a  little  while  I  was  limp.  And  then — I  went  up 
and  boldly  invited  you  out  to  dinner.  That  was  very — 
very  mannish,  wasn't  it?  I  suppose  you  wonder  how  I 
could  do  it?" 

"I  think  I've  understood,  more  or  less,  for  some  time; 
and  I  think  I  understand  even  better  now,"  I  told  her. 

She  asked,  after  being  silent  a  little  while,  "You  knew 
I  intended  to  treat  you  much  the  same  as  he  treated  your 
co-workers,  the  salesgirls — let's  not  mince  matters!" 

I  said,  "I  began  to  suspect  it  later;  and  after  I'd 
talked  with  Miss  Baumann  I  was  sure." 

She  asked  at  once  about  Miss  Baumann,  but  I  begged 
her  to  go  on,  I  would  tell  her  all  about  Miss  Baumann 
later. 

"Well— that's  about  all,"  she  said.  "I  couldn't  do  it 
— that's  all.  Not  on  account  of  myself,  at  all — I  was  sick 
of  marriage  and  everything  connected  with  it — and  the 
idea  of  a  lover  who  would  have  claims  on  me  was  just  as 
distasteful  to  me  as  to  most  men.  I  quit  because  you 
were  so  innocent — and  because  I  saw  what  it  would  do 
to  you.  You  were  ready  to  fall,  soul,  mind,  the  whole 
depths  of  your  virgin  nature,  in  love  with  me.  I  didn't 
really  love  you  a  particle,  and  I  was  sure  I  never  could. 

294 


Second    Youth 


I  simply  didn't  see  how  men  could  do  it — for  of  course  it 
would  have  been  far  worse  if  you'd  been  a  girl  and  I  a 
man.  So  I  quit — and  tried  to  forget  you.  And  couldn't. 
And  decided  we  could  be  good  friends.  And  saw  that  we 
couldn't,  that  I  was  verily  beginning  to  fall  in  love  with 
you.  And  tried  to  forget  you  again.  And  couldn't. 
And  wrote  you  a  sharp  note  when  I  saw  you  hanging 
around,  and  was  upset  by  suspecting  that  I  was  being 
watched,  besides — and  tried  to  make  up  afterward  by 
writing  you  a  decenter  one — and  didn't  recognize  you 
at  the  railway  station — and  have  hardly  recognized  you 
yet!" 

She  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  me  to  say  something.  I 
couldn't  say  anything.  Everything  I  thought  of  to  say 
seemed  foolish  in  the  extreme. 

Finally  I  asked,  "And  did  you  get  your  divorce?" 

She  said  she  had,  and  that  the  court  had  allowed  her 
$10,000  a  year  alimony.  "I'm  going  to  turn  it  over  to 
charitable  purposes  as  soon  as  I  can  earn  anything  like  a 
living,"  she  said.  "I  hate  it,  of  course — but  look  at  me! 

"Here  I  am,"  she  went  on,  "thirty-one  years  old,  with 
no  training,  no  knowledge  of  anything  except  to  make  my- 
self agreeable  to  a  rich  man  and  his  business  acquaintances ! 
I  like  to  keep  house,  I  like  to  putter  around  a  kitchen,  I 
like  to  make  my  own  dresses,  I'd  like  to  have  children — 
I'm  a  typical  home  woman — even  if  I  also  like  to  write 
book  reviews  for  a  newspaper  that  thinks  it  is  displaying 
unusual  munificence  when  it  pays  me  fifteen  dollars  for 
a  month's  work!  Look  at  me — and  talk  about  economic 
independence  for  women!  What  on  earth  am  I  good  for 
except  to  be  a  perfectly  dependent  wife — and,  maybe, 
mother?  How  much  did  you  receive  in  your  last  week's 

salary-envelope,  Roland  Farwell  Francis?" 

295 


Second    Youth 


I  answered,  marveling  at  her,  "Thirty  dollars." 

She  said :  "  Suppose  a  woman  like  me  should  fall  in  love 
with  a  man  making  thirty  dollars  a  week — even  fifty 
dollars  a  week !  Why — " 

She  began  to  laugh,  while  I  sat  there  dumb  as  a  post. 

"Where's  the  rest  of  the  automobile  coming  from? 
We  might  have  a  perfectly  good  motor — compression  mag- 
nificent, ignition  wonderful,  combustion  perfect  —  but 
that  isn't  all!  My  skin  fairly  creeps  at  the  thought  of 
continuing  to  accept  money  from  my  late  husband  after 
I'd  married  another  man!  Even  if  any  decent,  clean- 
souled  man  would  have  me  after  what  I've  been  through 
— and  become — gray-haired,  wrinkled,  old  at  thirty-one 
years — in  body  and  soul!" 

I  said,  hardly  knowing  what  I  was  saying,  that  it  wasn't 
true.  I  also  remember  saying  that  I  loved  her,  that  she 
was  the  only  woman  I'd  ever  loved,  or  ever  could  love — 
and  that  I  would  soon  be  making  $100  a  week. 

I  don't  think  she  heard  me  at  all.  She  was  already 
going  toward  the  house;  I  was  following.  "Let's  sleep 
on  it — on  all  the  damnable  dirty  degradation!"  she  was 
saying.  "I  want  to  take  a  hot  bath — with  plenty  of  soap 
— just  telling  about  it  has  made  me  feel  slimy  all  over — 
and  I  want  to  cry  myself  to  sleep!" 

She  almost  ran  into  the  house.  I  couldn't  see  well 
enough  to  follow  her.  For  a  while  it  broke  me  all  up. 
Then  I  began  to  see  that  the  worst  might  yet  be  to  come. 
She  might  not  really  have  meant  that  she  was  in  love  with 
me.  That  would  have  been  so  much  worse  than  anything 
else  that  it  made  all  the  rest  look  like  nothing. 

But,  when  it  came  to  that,  I  thought  she  really  did  care 
for  me  a  good  deal.  I  thought  I  could  really  not  be  too 
optimistic  if  I  felt  that,  and,  full  of  that  idea,  I  could  have 

296 


Second    Youth 


laughed  out  loud.  I  lit  my  pipe  and  strolled  around  in 
the  moonlight  awhile.  I  laughed  and  laughed,  as  if  I'd 
suddenly  lost  my  senses.  What  fools  we  mortals  be !  We 
take  everything  so  damned  seriously. 

I  saw  a  light  come  out  in  two  big  up-stairs  windows, 
and  I  thought  to  myself  that  she  must  be  preparing  to 
take  that  bath.  How  peculiar  of  her  to  want  a  bath,  a 
plain  physical  bath,  after  that!  It  was  very  humorous, 
on  the  whole,  it  seemed  to  me,  and  I  laughed  about  it  till 
I  dropped  my  pipe,  so  that  the  stem  was  all  gritty  when 
I  put  it  back  in  my  mouth,  but  I  didn't  care — I  rather 
liked  it,  to  tell  the  truth!  I  was  as  crazy  as  a  loon. 

I  got  hold  of  myself  when  I  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sheva 
coming  up  the  driveway  in  the  moonlight.  He  had  his 
arm  around  her  waist.  "Lord!"  said  I,  "some  marriages 
do  turn  out  well,  even  between  people  as  far  apart  as  the 
Jews  and  Gentiles  usually  are !  And  if  Sheva  mistook  me 
for  one  of  his  own  race,  maybe  I'm  something  like  him 
in  other  ways — just  as  Mrs.  Sheva  reminds  me  some  of 
Miss  Winton — although  of  course  she's  older!  And  not 
half  so  beautiful!" 

I  made  a  noise  walking  around  on  the  stone  pavement, 
thinking  they  might  be  embarrassed  if  they  saw  me 
suddenly.  Mr.  Sheva  at  once  removed  his  arm,  and  they 
came  forward  to  greet  me. 

I  explained  that  Miss  Winton  had  gone  in  to  take  a  bath. 

They  both  laughed,  and  Mrs.  Sheva  said:  "Oh,  she's 
always  taking  baths!  She's  the  most  inveterate  bather  I 
ever  heard  of!  She  had  one  this  morning,  and  I'm  sure 
she  took  another  just  before  she  went  down  to  meet 
you!" 

Mr.  Sheva  showed  me  to  my  room.  He  is  a  delight, 
with  his  perfect  English  and  intense  politeness.  I  can 

20  297 


Second    Youth 


almost  feel  my  own  English  and  manner  of  speaking  im- 
proved from  even  this  short  acquaintance  with  him. 

It  has  been  beginning  to  be  dawn  outside  for  almost 
half  an  hour  past.  Another  night  devoted  to  thoughts 
of  my  lady!  But  how  different  from  that  first  one  in 
Madison  Square! 

I  suppose  I  ought  to  go  to  bed  and  try  to  sleep  awhile, 
so  that  I  won't  be  too  seedy  to-morrow.  I'm  fagged  out, 
and  that's  the  truth.  Still,  I  dare  say  the  first  sight  of 
Miss  Winton  at  to-morrow  morning's  breakfast  table 
will  make  a  new  man  of  me. 

While  I  was  thinking  between  spells  of  writing  during 
these  wee  sma'  hours,  I  remembered  Browning's  "Blot 
on  the  'Scutcheon,"  one  of  Earl  Mertoun's  songs  about  the 
lady  who  has,  in  a  certain  way,  dishonored  herself. 

There's  a  woman  like  a  dewdrop, 
She's  so  purer  than  the  purest. 

Still,  the  end  of  that  was  a  tragedy.  It  is  strange  how 
these  high-strung  women  cannot  stand  what  an  ordinary 
woman  would  never  think  of  being  injured  by.  I'll  not 
think  of  the  "Blot  on  the  'Scutcheon."  It  gives  me  a 
stabbing  pain  in  the  region  of  the  heart.  It  is  not  true 
to  life;  it  had  to  be  tragic  that  way  in  order  to  be  dramatic; 
it  need  never  have  come  out  that  way  in  real  life. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  same  morning,  at  four  o'clock  on 
the  morning  of  Sunday,  July  2d,  Mr.  Francis  wrote  further: 

This  is  too  much;   this  is  awful.     I  cannot  sleep,  I  am 

nervous  as  a  cat,  and  it  is  no  joke,  either;  it's  gone  past  the 

298 


Second    Y outh 


point  of  being  a  joke.  I  tried  to  make  a  joke  of  it  at  first, 
but  I  can't. 

It  may  be  just  the  suggestion  from  that  damned  tragedy 
of  Browning's  "The  Blot  on  the  'Scutcheon."  If  I  close 
my  eyes  I  begin  to  see  visions  of  women  killing  themselves 
merely  because  they're  upset,  or  somebody  has  made  a 
little  unimportant  mistake  somewhere,  as  in  "Romeo  and 
Juliet."  It's  no  joke.  Suppose  she  should  try  some- 
thing like  that?  She  was  desperate  when  she  went  in  the 
house,  all  upset. 

Why  didn't  I  make  her  understand  that  I  was  about  to 
begin  earning  $100  a  week?  It  isn't  much,  of  course,  but 
it  might  have  helped.  Her  nerves  were  all  on  edge,  and 
that's  what  makes  high-strung  women  do  those  things, 
not  that  they  have  any  good  reason. 

I  keep  having  visions  of  her  stretched  out,  like  Juliet, 
dead — beautiful  visions,  but  enough  to  make  a  man  begin 
breaking  doors  down.  I  read  a  novel  once  in  which  a 
woman,  after  a  hard  time  of  it,  even  when  things  looked 
brighter  for  her,  killed  herself  by  cutting  her  wrists  in  a 
bath-tub.  The  damned  novel  described  how  she  looked, 
with  her  dark  hair  against  the  white  porcelain  tub,  and 
the  bright  scarlet  water  coming,  like  a  coverlet  of  soft 
scarlet  silk,  up  to  her  throat,  how  beautiful  she  looked, 
as  if  she  had  just  ceased  to  breathe  for  a  moment,  as  if 
she  were  still  alive,  but  spellbound,  as  if  she  were  startled 
by  so  many  people  around  her  bath.  I  remembered  that 
she  had  gone  to  take  a  bath. 

Nonsense,  Francis,  old  horse.  You  damn  fool!  Your 
nerves  are  all  frayed  out.  What  earthly  excuse  would 
she  have  to  do  such  a  thing?  And  yet  that's  always  just 
when  they  do  it.  Anyway,  if  I  don't  sit  here  and  write 

I'll  begin  to  go  crazy.    My  nerves  must  be  all  frayed  out , 

299 


Second    Youth 


by  the  past  few  weeks  of  excitement.  Then  I  thought  of 
the  girl  in  Browning's  "Porphyria's  Lover,"  how  she 
looked  after  her  lover  had  strangled  her — beautiful,  of 
course,  and  all  that,  but  no  sort  of  a  sight  for  a  man  to 
keep  seeing  when  he's  trying  to  get  some  needed  repose. 
If  I  had  a  drink  of  anything  I'd  take  it.  I've  drunk  water 
till  I  seem  about  due  to  burst,  but  it  doesn't  help  much. 

Curses  on  it,  I  can  fairly  feel  how  she'd  think,  how  she'd 
say  to  herself — "Here  I  am,  thirty-one  years  old,  gray, 
wrinkled,old  before  my  time."  It's  a  lie,she  isn't,but  that 
wouldn't  keep  her  from  thinking  it  if  she  was  bound  to  do  it. 

"And  the  only  chance  I  have  at  matrimony  is  with  a 
thirty-dollar-a-week  counter-jumper,  with  whom  I'll  have 
to  starve,  and  who  won't  know  enough  to  be  decent  to  a 
woman  of  my  sensibilities."  This  may  all  be  true  except 
the  thirty-dollar-a-week  part.  For  Heaven's  sake,  why 
didn't  I  yell  "A  hundred  dollars  a  week — a  hundred  dol- 
lars a  week" — until  she  believed  me  and  came  out  of  her 
melancholy  fit? 

"I'm  stained,  a  divorced  woman,  my  name's  been 
dragged  in  gutter  dirt,"  she'd  say  to  herself.  "If  that 
counter-jumper  weren't  so  much  beneath  me,  he'd  never 
look  at  me — any  more  than  any  other  decent  man  would. 
He  takes  me  even  if  I  am  a  little  soiled  and  used,  cut  goods, 
not  returnable — because  I'm  finer  goods  than  he  might 
be  able  to  afford  fresh  from  the  piece."  Oh,  hell — there  is 
such  a  lot  of  truth  in  it — and  yet  it's  practically  all 
damned  lies,  perfectly  damned  lies!  Haven't  I  had  a 
chance  at  nice  fresh  goods,  uncut,  still  in  the  piece — 
Helen  Remmick — and  the  most  she  could  do  was  to  make 
me  think  of  some  one  else  whom  she  would  look  like  if 
Helen  Remmick  were  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful  and 

Jiad  ten  thousand  times  more  sense,' 

300 


Second    Youth 


I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  go  to  the  door  and  bellow  that 
I'm  sick,  or  something,  make  a  commotion,  stir  things  up. 
The  silence  in  this  great  house  is  awful.  I'm  in  a  fine 
cold  sweat.  There's  something  terrible  going  on  some- 
where, or  else  I'm  having  a  nightmare  while  I'm  wide- 
awake. I  can't  get  the  sight  of  dead  heroines  of  fiction 
and  poetry  out  from  under  my  eyelids,  and  every  face, 
no  matter  whether  it's  on  Juliet,  or  Porphyria,  or  the  lady 
who  killed  herself  by  cutting  her  wrists  in  a  bath-tub — 
every  one  of  them  has  Miss  Winton's  face!  James  says 
there  may  be  something  in  telepathy,  in  transference  of 
emotions,  ideas,  the  feelings  that  surround  actions,  but 
he  is  careful  not  to  commit  himself.  Why  didn't  he 
either  say  there  was  or  there  was  not  something  in  these 
psychic  transferences  or  else  keep  his  mouth  shut  about 
it?  Suppose  she  is  contemplating  something  like  this — 
suppose  she's  already  done  it — and  I'm  getting  a  psychic 
record  of  it?  Heaven  and  hell!  At  any  rate  I  can  get 
dressed  again — that  '11  be  something  to  take  up  my  mind 
for  a  little  while,  to  keep  me  from  exploding,  and  I'm  get- 
ting a  chill  sitting  here  in  these  fancy  new  pajamas,  any- 
way. 


Mr.  Francis  got  dressed,  creeping  around  on  his  toes 
so  that  he  might  not  make  a  noise,  put  on  the  new  house 
moccasins  with  the  red-and-green  arrow-heads  embroid- 
ered on  the  toes,  and  tried  to  calm  himself  by  stalking 
himself  from  pier-glass  to  chiffonier  mirror  and  back  again. 
His  face  was  greenish  white,  his  eyes  were  staring,  his 
teeth  chattered  with  combined  cold  and  nervousness. 
Pale  green-gray  dawn-light  came  in  at  his  window,  mak- 
ing the  glow  of  his  green-shaded  electric  reading-lamp 

301 


Second    Youth 


sickly,  deadly,  nauseating.  He  was  in  a  terrible  stew, 
he  told  himself — in  a  terrible  stew. 

In  passing  his  chiffonier  mirror  for  the  seventeenth  or 
eighteenth  time  he  caught  sight  of  an  appearance  like  a 
door-bell  on  the  adjacent  wall.  A  small  black  button 
protruded  from  a  dark  oak  circle;  it  was  reminiscent  of  the 
call-bell  on  the  wall  of  his  hotel  bedroom. 

Mr.  Francis  pressed  the  button.  He  imagined,  faintly, 
that  some  one  might  come  to  the  door,  his  door.  At 
least  there  was  a  push-button,  made  to  call  the  attention 
of  people.  After  a  moment  he  pushed  it  again,  several 
times.  He  was  getting  half  frantic  with  insomnia  and 
night  writing  and  self-hypnotic  hysteria. 

Some  one  came  after  about  fifteen  minutes;  some  one 
came  softly  and  rapped  on  his  door.  Mr.  Francis  got  the 
door  open.  Outside,  in  a  bright,  red-flowered  wrapper, 
stood  the  girl  who  had  served  as  butler  at  dinner. 

"Did  you  ring,  sir?"  she  asked. 

"I  did,"  Francis  admitted.  "Yes — I  rang — yes.  The 
fact  is — "  He  began  to  compose  and  finger  his  way 
through  his  lie  with  considerable  adroitness,  for  him. 
"The  fact  is  I  thought  I — I  heard  Miss  Winton — I 
mean  Mrs.  Twombly — cry  out,  you  know — as  if  she 
were  frightened  by  something,  perhaps,  you  know;  and  I 
thought,  just  to  make  sure — sure,  you  know,  that  it  was 
nothing  but  a  nightmare,  that  she  mightn't  be  ill,  or 
something  like  that — " 

"Why,  I'll  go  and  see — I'll  knock  at  her  door  right 
away!"  gasped  the  maid,  infected  at  once,  and  violently, 
by  Mr.  Francis's  terror. 

She  disappeared  down  the  hall;  by  craning  his  neck  out 
of  his  own  doorway  Francis  watched  her  until  she  hurried 
around  a  corner,  with  the  red  wrapper  blowing  out  behind. 

302 


Second    Youth 


After  an  age,  which  occupied  some  two  minutes  of 
ordinary  time,  she  came  again  within  sight  of  Francis's 
protruding  eyes. 

"She  says  she's  perfectly  all  right,"  reported  the  maid. 
"I  told  her  you  thought  you  heard  her  cry  out,  but  she 
said  you  were  mistaken — she  was  perfectly  all  right." 

"Yes — of  course — I  didn't  expect  you  to — to  repeat 
what  I'd  said,"  Francis  complained,  feebly,  fumbling  in 
his  pocket.  He  gave  her  a  dollar  and  hoped  she  wouldn't 
say  anything  further  about  the  occurrence.  She  de- 
clared she  wouldn't,  thanked  him  humbly,  and  departed 
with  joyous  lightness. 

"  I'm  a  poor  fool — nerves  all  gone  to  pot — I'm  a  perfect 
ass!"  Francis  mumbled  to  himself,  alone  in  his  room. 
Undoubtedly  Miss  Winton  had  slept  like  a  top.  His 
feeling  of  relief  in  the  assurance  that  she  had  slept  like  a 
top  gradually  gave  way  to  growing  irritation  with  her  for 
having  done  it. 

He  said  no  more.  Shaking  with  misery  and  self-dis- 
gust, he  got  out  of  his  clothes,  and  crept  back  into  bed. 
All  of  his  subconscious,  and  some  of  his  conscious,  self 
began  to  be  irritated  at  Miss  Winton  because  she  had 
slept  like  a  top  while  he  was  raving  himself  hysterical 
in  the  belief  that  she  was  cutting  her  throat,  or  something 
like  that. 

She  had  disappointed  him,  she  had  not  come  up  to  his 
expectations;  for  the  fifth  or  sixth  consecutive  time  he 
had  made  a  fool  of  himself  about  her.  What  right  had 
she  to  make  him  make  a  fool  of  himself  about  her — to 
make  a  shaky,  nervous,  nightmarish  wreck  of  himself 
while  she  slept  like  a  top? 

He  tried  to  sleep,  but  that  was  out  of  the  question.  He 
(Usliked  her  a  great  deal.  In  fact,  he  almost  hated  her, 


Second    Youth 


In  fact,  he  did  hate  her.  In  her  serene,  high-handed,  fine, 
ladylike  way  she  was  leading  off  a  succession  of  his  goats 
— he  no  sooner  got  a  new  goat  than  she  led  it  off.  It  was 
too  much.  Yes,  he  hated  her! 

In  the  course  of  a  few  hours  she  had,  without  any 
particular  effort  on  her  part,  led  him  through  emotions  of 
perfect  peace,  wild  love  passion,  adoration,  heartbroken 
pity,  terror,  and  active  dislike.  Mr.  Francis  was  thor- 
oughly in  love  with  that  lady,  and  he  could  prove  it. 


XVII 

IT  THUNDERS,  AND  HE  REALIZES  THAT  ALL  IS  OVER  BETWEEN 

THEM.      FIRM    IN    THIS    BELIEF,    HE    INTERRUPTS 

AN  INTELLECTUAL  CONVERSATION  FOR  THE 

SAKE    OF    ONE    LAST    WALK   WITH 

HIS    LADY 

"  T)AULINE,  take  Mr.  Francis's  coffee  away,  and  bring 

A     him  a  fresh  cup." 

"Why,  Mrs.  Sheva,  this  coffee  is  fine — just  what  I  want 
and  need!  I  cannot  let  anybody  take  this  coffee  away 
from  me!" 

"Oh — why,  I  thought — just  from  your  expression  as 
you  tasted  it — " 

"Oh,  that!  Why — to  tell  the  truth — I  was  just  notic- 
ing that  I  seemed  to  hear  a  roll  of  thunder." 

Mrs.  Sheva  seemed  relieved.  "I  thought,  perhaps, 
something  had  been  left  in  the  cup — a  mouse,  or  some- 
thing," she  explained,  seriously.  She  was  a  very  serious- 
minded  person.  "I  hope  you're  not  afraid  of  thunder, 
Mr.  Francis?" 

"No — I'm  not  at  all."  Francis  was  put  on  his  dignity 
by  the  suggestion  that  he  might  be  afraid  of  thunder. 

"My  brother  is,"  said  Mrs.  Sheva,  buttering  toast. 
"Dreadfully.  He's  very  sensitive.  He's  a  novelist,  you 
know." 

"That's  too  bad,"  commented  Francis,  sympathetically, 

305 


Second    Youth 


stifling  his  amazement  that  anybody,  least  of  all  a  man, 
could  be  afraid  of  thunder. 

"And  I  thought,  from  your  expression  just  then,  that 
there  was  either  something  wrong,  vitally  wrong,  with  the 
coffee — or  else  that  you  were  afraid  of  thunder,  just  as  he 
is — and  as  many  sensitive  men  are." 

"  I'm  not  afraid  of  thunder — nor  lightning,  either,"  an- 
nounced George  Sheva,  aged  ten  years,  from  the  side- 
table  where  he  sat  breakfasting  with  Miss  Gertrude  Sheva, 
aged  six. 

"  Oh,  you  big  fibber !  You  are,  too,  afraid  of  lightning !" 
riposted  Miss  Sheva,  spilling  egg  on  her  ruffled  bib. 

"Children!"  said  Mrs.  Sheva. 

Francis  explained,  somewhat  portentous  with  his  inner 
thoughts:  "I  was  just  remembering  a — a  belief  I  had 
when  I  was  about  the  age  of  Master  George  there.  There 
used  to  be  a  sort  of  tide-water  creek  near  the  place  in 
Astoria  where  I  lived  when  a  boy,  and  there  were  snapping- 
turtles  in  it.  It  used  to  be  our  belief  that  if  one  of  those 
beasts  ever  took  hold  of  us  he  wouldn't  let  go  until  it 
thundered.  I  never  hear  thunder,  even  yet,  without  a 
sort  of  shudder." 

"Say — you  haven't  got  one  of  those  snapping-turtles 
hanging  to  you  anywhere  now,  have  you?"  demanded 
George  Sheva,  displaying  sudden  interest  in  Mr.  Francis's 
anatomy. 

"George!"  said  Mrs.  Sheva. 

Francis  gloomily  took  a  sip  of  coffee.  Nobody  ven- 
tured any  further  remarks.  It  was  a  typical  Sunday- 
morning  breakfast-table. 

"I  remember  thunder  chiefly  because  it  inspired  me  to 
perpetrate  my  first  epigram,"  remarked  Mr.  Sheva,  creat- 
ing conversation  with  some  effort.  "I  was  then  eighteen 

,'500 


Second    Y outk 


years  old,  and  I  was  living  in  a  three-family  house  in  the 
Bronx,  with  a  devout  Catholic  family  above  and  two 
devout  Baptist  old-maid  sisters  below.  The  Catholic 
lady  on  the  floor  above  and  the  two  Baptist  ladies  below 
were  at  one  in  their  fear  of  thunder.  My  epigram  ran, 
*  Most  persons  cannot  listen  to  the  thunder  of  the  universe 
without  running  to  hide  in  the  musty  closet  of  some  old 
faith.'  I  was  proud  of  that,  believe  me,  at  the  time !" 

"It  seems,"  said  Mr.  Francis,  interrupting  himself  in 
favor  of  more  coffee,  "to  amply  fit  the  case." 

Mrs.  Sheva  said,  seriously,  "Herbert,  before  you  in- 
troduced that  epigram  it  might  have  been  thoughtful 
if  you  had  ascertained  Mr.  Francis's  religious  convic- 
tions." 

"Why — I  took  it  for  granted — "  began  Mr.  Sheva, 
abashed. 

"Herbert  Spencer  satisfies  me  perfectly — Data  of  Ethics 
and  First  Principles,"  explained  Mr.  Francis. 

"Glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  most  gratified!"  declared 
Mr.  Sheva,  introducing  the  first  spark  of  spontaneity  that 
had  appeared  that  morning  at  the  grown-ups'  table. 
"Spencer  is  neglected  nowadays  in  favor  of  all  these 
new  Germans  and  Frenchmen,  but  those  clouds  will  pass — 
they're  already  passing,  aren't  they?  Of  course  he  made 
mistakes — he  had  an  inadequate — or  rather  an  over- 
adequate — idea  of  evolution;  but,  correcting  him  with 
later  knowledge,  no  one  man  has  ever  done  so  much  to 
throw  light  on  this  scheme  of  things — has  he?" 

Mr.  Francis  firmly  declared  that  no  other  man  had,  and 
Mr.  Sheva  went  on  to  criticize  and  appreciate  the  English 
philosopher.  Mr.  Francis  heard  little  of  it.  In  an  aside, 
across  the  table,  Mrs.  Sheva  was  saying  to  Miss  Winton: 
"You  look  miserable  this  morning,  dear.  But — three 

307 


Second    Y outh 


baths  yesterday,  and  another  this  morning — really,  Adele, 
it's  no  wonder  you're  all  washed  out!" 

"Adele!"  repeated  Mr.  Francis  to  himself,  staring  into 
the  orange-golden  depths  of  his  coddled  egg.  It  was  a 
new  word,  a  new  name — he  liked  it  better  than  Adelaide. 
Adele!  It  was  a  beautiful  name!  He  almost  wished  it 
hadn't  thundered. 

For  of  course  the  thunder  and  his  recognition  of  the 
fact  that  Miss  Winton's  hold  on  him  resembled  that  of 
a  snapping-turtle  which  would  only  let  go  when  it  thun- 
dered— that  was  symbolical,  and  nobody  could  get  around 
a  symbol  as  perfect  as  that.  It  had  thundered.  There 
was  nothing  more  needed  to  prove  that  he  had  been  right 
in  his  before-sunrise  conclusion  that  all  was  over  between 
them.  If  it  hadn't  thundered  there  might  have  been  some 
hope.  But  it  had.  That  settled  everything.  Otherwise 
there  could  be  nothing  in  symbolism,  nothing  in  those 
plain  portents  that  have  meant  so  much  to  human  life  in 
all  ages,  and  especially  to  the  advanced  symbolical 
realists  of  this.  Without  having  heard  of  symbolical 
realism,  Mr.  Francis  was,  just  at  the  moment,  a  devoted 
adherent  of  that  faith — in  common  with  heathen  savages 
at  their  best  and  more  rational  heathens  at  their  worst. 
After  a  sleepless  night  and  the  intuitive  recognition  of 
some  of  his  lady's  ideas  about  him,  granted  only  that  all 
symbols  carry  a  pessimistic  interpretation,  and  Mr. 
Francis  would  have  met  symbolical  realism  more  than 
half-way. 

It  had  thundered.  The  snapping-turtle  had  let  loose. 
He  was  very  miserable.  His  good  breakfast,  including  two 
cups  of  good  coffee,  had  not  begun  to  draw  him  back  into 
a  less-advanced  frame  of  mind. 

"If  the  ladies  will  excuse  us  a  few  moments,  Mr. 

308 


Second    Youth 


Francis,  I'd  like  to  show  you  our  library,"  said  Mr.  Sheva, 
rising. 

The  ladies  said  they  would,  Mrs.  Sheva  in  so  many 
words,  Miss  Winton  by  bowing  like  a  duchess  over  her 
egg-cup.  She  was  pale,  resigned,  washed  out,  bilious- 
looking. 

Probably  she  also  had  understood,  had  felt  the  symbol- 
ism in  the  air,  reflected  Francis,  following  Mr.  Sheva. 
She  had  seen,  also,  that  there  was  nothing  more  in  life 
for  either  of  them  but  resignation  or  joint  suicide.  It 
would  be  good  and  fitting  for  him  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms 
and  leap  from  some  high  rock,  with  jagged  rocks  down 
below,  a  few  thousand  feet,  clasped  in  one  last  embrace. 
Looked  at  from  any  angle,  their  lot  was  tragic. 

He  followed  Mr.  Sheva  into  the  library;  it  was  larger 
than  the  whole  reading-room  of  the  branch  library  over 
which  Miss  Rose  Baumann  presided,  he  noticed,  and  much 
more  beautifully  appointed.  Softened  light  came  in 
through  long,  stained-glass  windows,  a  quiet  and  a  holy 
light  withal.  The  light  and  advancing  inward  catabolism 
of  bacon,  eggs,  and  coffee  cheered  Mr.  Francis  a  good  deal. 

He  began  to  ask  a  few  intelligible  questions,  to  show  an 
interest  in  Mr.  Sheva's  running  comment. 

"And  here  are  all  the  new  novels  of  the  last  ten  years, 
the  more  serious  ones,  the  ones  from  which  one  may  get 
ideas  as  well  as  entertainment,"  explained  Mr.  Sheva, 
leading  him  before  a  section  of  shelves.  "English  in  the 
middle,  French  above,  German  and  Italian  and  Spanish 
below.  There's  an  appalling  number  of  them,  isn't  there?" 

Francis  noticed  one,  in  particular,  in  a  blue  binding, 
at  the  level  of  his  eyes.  "Oh,  I've  always  been  in- 
terested— "  he  began;  he  had  been  about  to  add,  "in  the 
Atlantic  Ocean"  when  he  noticed  that  the  title  had  a. 


Second    Youth 


final  "s"  instead  of  a  final  "c."  He  covered  his  embar- 
rassment by  drawing  out  the  book.  It  was  an  English 
translation  of  Atlantis,  by  Gerhart  Hauptmann. 

"It  is  interesting — more  for  attempt  than  attainment, 
perhaps.  Have  you  read  it?"  asked  Mr.  Sheva. 

"No,"  admitted  Francis,  turning  the  leaves.  "No — 
I  haven't  read  it." 

"Interested  in  the  reviews,  perhaps.  Well,  that's  the 
way  I  do  most  of  my  reading,"  said  Sheva.  He  leaned 
against  a  shelf-partition,  stroking  his  Vandyke,  his  dark 
brown  eyes  narrowed  with  intellectual  appreciation.  "  Yes 
— it's  almost  unique  in  treating  that  breaking-up  period 
in  a  man's  life — the  years  that  usually  come  upon  a  man 
between  thirty  and  forty.  The  time  when  a  good  part  of 
a  man  is  likely  to  sink  under  the  waves  of  forgetf illness, 
like  a  new  Atlantis — a  tragic  time,  and  Hauptmann  has 
not  skimped  the  tragedy!  The  book  is  bitter,  bitter — 
Hauptmann's  own  life  must  have  furnished  most  of  the 
material.  It  is  almost  unrelieved  tragedy — in  spite  of  the 
ending.  I  suppose  that  change  in  a  man,  the  losing  of  his 
old  self,  has  to  be  more  or  less  tragic."  He  stroked  his 
beard. 

"I  shouldn't  think  it  need  be  tragic — if  he  gets  some- 
thing better  than  he  loses,"  said  Francis.  Metabolism 
was  proceeding  apace.  "  I  should  even  think  there  might 
be  something  joyous  about  it." 

"Perhaps  it  might  as  well  be  the  middle  comedy  as 
the  middle  tragedy,"  admitted  Sheva.  "Atlantis — 
Hauptmann  may  have  been  inspired  by  Longfellow's 
great  line,  'The  lost  Atlantis  that  men  call  youth,'  you 
know;  and  W.  L.  George,  one  of  the  brainiest  of  the 
younger  English  writers,  has  recently  worked  out  the 

same  idea  as  applied  to  three  Englishwomen,  in   The 

310 


Second    Youth 


Second  Blossoming.  A  very  good  novel,  a  tragedy  of  the 
sordid  variety.  There  does  seem  to  be  a  general  awaken- 
ing to  the  fact  that  there's  likely  to  be  a  break  with  the 
past,  a  renewing  and  broadening  of  life,  in  short,  a  genuine 
second  youth,  between  the  ages  of,  say,  twenty-eight  and 
thirty-five,  with  both  men  and  women.  I  suppose  it 
would  be  your  idea  that  this  breaking-up  period  need  be 
no  more  tragic  than  the  breaking-up  period  of  first  youth 
— between  the  ages  of  twelve  and  twenty-one?  By  the 
way,  don't  you  think  Booth  Tarkington  has  made  rather 
good  comedy  out  of  that  first  period  in  Seventeen?  When 
we  run  down  contemporary  American  literature  we  forget 
that  we're  producing  about  the  world's  best  comedy, 
don't  you  think?" 

Francis  asserted,  earnestly,  that  he  thought  so;  but 
his  thoughts  had  followed  his  eyes  elsewhere.  Through  a 
high,  half -swung  window  appeared  a  vision — a  vision  of 
watery  morning  sunlight,  and  cool,  gray  flagstones,  and  a 
corner  of  the  fountain,  and  a  stretch  of  white  driveway 
winding  between  green  lawns  and  dark  blue  trees  beyond. 
In  the  foreground  of  the  vision  was  a  tall  lady,  dressed 
in  a  plain  gown  of  silk  a  little  darker  than  the  flagstones 
on  which  she  stood,  the  slim  white  stem  of  her  throat 
lifted  above  the  V-shaped  neck  of  her  gown;  her  dark 
hair  was  half  covered  by  a  man's  green-cloth  hat. 
She  seemed  to  be  taking  a  general  survey  of  the  weather 
conditions.  Had  that  thunder,  her  tilted  head  questioned, 
really  meant  a  storm  in  Woodbridge?  Or  had  it  been 
merely  the  mutterings  of  a  distant  concourse  of  fortuitous 
atoms,  without  special  significance  for  her  and  hers? 

"Oh — there's  Mrs.  Twombly.  She  seems  to  be  con- 
templating a  walk,  doesn't  she?"  commented  Mr.  Sheva, 

following  the  line  of  Mr.  Francis's  steady  gaze. 

311 


Second    Youth 


"Do  you — you  think  she's  going  walking?"  asked 
Francis. 

"I  gathered  it  from  the  fact  that  she  has  on  the  gray- 
suede  shoes  she  generally  walks  in — and  my  hat,"  ex- 
plained Mr.  Sheva.  "Shall  we  go  out?" 

Taking  it  for  granted  that  Mr.  Francis  had  no  objection 
to  going  out,  he  led  the  way  back  into  the  connecting 
hall.  Francis  admired  his  knee-panties.  He  had  pleasant, 
plump  calves,  as  well  as  literary  discernment  and  an  air  of 
distinction.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  snapping-turtles,  thun- 
der, and  other  symbolical  phenomena,  Mr.  Francis  would 
have  been  deeply  interested  in  all  of  him. 

"We  saw  you  preparing  to  escape,  Adele,"  Mr.  Sheva 
told  her:  "and  the  fact  quite  quenched  even  the  critical 
brilliancy  of  this  humble  scribe  of  the  tribe  of  David! 
In  return  for  your  attempted  desertion"- — Mr.  Sheva 
glanced  with  solemnity  from  one  to  the  other  of  his 
guests — "I'm  going  to  turn  over  to  you  the  duties  of 
host  and  hostess  while  I  look  over  the  last  copy  of  The 
Nation,"  he  concluded,  and  immediately  clacked  away 
over  the  flagstones,  whistling  a  snatch  from  the  Torea- 
dor's Song  from  "  Carmen. " 

Francis  said,  "He  was  giving  me  some  very  interesting 
information  there  in  the  library."  It  seemed  to  be 
important  to  say  something. 

Miss  Winton  said,  "I  hope  you  didn't  feel  that  my 
appearance  was  in  the  way  of  a  necessary  interrup- 
tion?" 

"No,  I  didn't."  Francis  was  stung  by  her  collection 
of  large,  cold  words,  but  determined  to  be  frank — at 
least  frankness  remained  to  them.  "No,  I  wanted  to  go 
with  you.  I  think  he  must  have  suspected  it." 

"I  intended  that  he  should;  I  wanted  you  to  come  with 

312 


Second    Youth 


me,"  she  said,  and  began  to  smile  as  she  turned  toward 
the  steps  leading  down  to  the  driveway. 

Francis,  hatless  and  generally  at  a  loss,  kept  step  with 
her.  She  began  to  laugh,  the  little  upward  trill  of 
contralto  notes  that  he  remembered  with  peculiar  poig- 
nancy. 

"Why  are  we  so  stand-offish  this  morning?"  she  de- 
manded. "Please  tell  me  that?  Have  we  any  earthly 
reason  not  to  be  as  frank  as  we  were  yesterday?" 

Francis  reminded  her,  "Well,  we  left  each  other  under 
— under  rather  strained  circumstances  last  night,  didn't 
we?" 

"Yes;  but  is  that  all?" 

"You  should  know  as  well  as  I." 

"But  a  man's  always  supposed  to  confess  first — even 
if  I  did  break  down  traditions  last  night — somewhat. 
Please  tell  me  why  you  looked  at  me  all  the  time  at  this 
morning's  breakfast  table — whenever  you  did  look  at 
me — as  if  you  were  contemplating  turning  me  over  to  a 
first-rate  inquisition  at  least?" 

"I  didn't!"  protested  Francis,  genuinely  indignant. 

"  Well — maybe  you  didn't — maybe  I  got  the  suggestion 
from  the  inquisition  I  put  myself  through  last  night.  I 
don't  know  how — why — I  managed  to  do  that — and  it 
nearly  finished  me  afterward,  Roland  Farwell  Francis!" 

He  protested,  miserably:  "Oh,  I  don't  see  why.  I 
didn't  think — I  didn't  know — I  suppose  I  was  thinking 
about  how  you  must  be  thinking  of  me — not  very  favor- 
ably, I  thought,  although  since  you  mentioned  that  you 
thought  I  was  only  making  thirty  dollars  a  week,  I 
think—" 

"It  seems  to  be  a  muddle — but  see,  the  sun's  coming 

out!"  she  interrupted.     "That  may  be  symbolical — " 
21  313 


Second    Youth 


"I  don't  believe  in  symbolism,"  Francis  told  her;  he 
was  still  bitter,  and  not  less  bitter  for  a  growing  suspicion 
that  the  snapping-turtle  hadn't  let  loose,  after  all,  thunder 
or  no  thunder. 

"Oh,  my,  what  a  dark  blue  mood  you're  in  this  fine 
morning!  Did  I  really  hurt  your  feelings?" 

"You  did.  I  didn't  sleep  a  wink  all  night.  Of  course 
it  wasn't  your  fault.  You're  perfectly  right  to — to  prefer 
nearly  anything  to — to  my  regard." 

It  was  becoming  increasingly  clear  to  him  that  the 
breaking-free  sunlight  might  be  symbolical,  but  an  ancient 
and  instinctive  masculine  wisdom  kept  him  from  showing 
optimism  before  the  time  was  ripe.  The  same  wisdom 
even  warned  him  to  put  on  pessimism  as  a  cloak  and  lure. 

"It  seems  we  were  both  enjoying  a  pleasant  night 
thinking  about  our  own  troubles!"  laughed  Miss  Winton. 
"  I  suppose  it's  a  lesson  in  the  virtue  of  unselfishness !" 

"  Oh,  I  think  I  thought  about  you,  too,  as  much  as  about 
myself,"  Francis  objected. 

"Well — what  did  you  think?  I'm  through  my  inquisi- 
tion, at  any  rate — it's  time  to  begin  on  yours." 

Francis  thought  of  handing  her  the  book,  open  at  what 
he  had  written  the  night  before,  and  begging  her  to  read 
just  what  he  had  thought,  precisely  as  he  had  thought  it. 
He  hesitated.  He  had  become  a  little  ashamed  of  the 
naiivet^  of  some  parts,  of  the  greater  part,  of  that  Personal 
Journal;  suppose  she  should  wish  to  read  some  of  the 
earlier  things?  He  hesitated. 

"Well,  if  you're  not  ready  for  that — we  might  as  well 
put  you  through  the  preliminary  degrees!"  she  suggested, 
walking  more  slowly.  She  turned  up  the  smooth-shaven 
bank  above  the  road  a  little  way  and  sat  down  in  the 

shade  of  a  middle-aged  maple.     "I'm  simply  done  out," 

314 


Second    Youth 


she  confessed.  "Suppose  we  conduct  the  examination, 
sitting  here,  in  a  perfectly  informal  way?" 

Francis  sat  down  beside  her,  noticing  her  gray-su£de 
shoes,  her  gray  -  silken  ankles,  the  gray  -  silken  expanse 
of  her  skirts.  He  looked  away,  quieted,  pleased,  sud- 
denly at  peace  with  himself  and  the  world.  Perhaps  two 
miles  before  and  below  them  the  slim  white  spire  of  a 
Woodbridge  church  soared  like  an  upheld  poniard  above 
the  billowing  greenery  between.  He  began  to  complete 
the  circle,  to  get  a  return  of  the  ecstatic  peace  that  he  had 
found  shortly  after  he  had  motored  away  from  the  station 
with  her  beside  him. 

"I  hate  to  talk  about  my  foolish  troubles  on  a  day  like 
this,  here  on  this  hillside — with  you!"  he  confessed. 

But  Miss  Winton  was  feminine  and  practical.  "Taking 
it  for  granted  that  we  still  agree  we  ought  to  get  ac- 
quainted— why,  we  ought  to  get  acquainted,"  she  decided; 
"and  there's  nothing  like  laying  a  solid  foundation — it 
saves  no  end  of  trouble  afterward.  That's  the  very  good 
excuse  which  young  things  in  love,  especially  young  men, 
have  for  pouring  out  their  sins  into  a  sympathetic  ear. 
It's  a  fine  thing — I  believe  in  it — and  I  always  wished  my 
ex-husband  had.  Suppose  we  agree  just  to  call  him  my 
'Ex'?  But  as  for  you,  Mr.  Francis — I've  thought  of  a 
possible  way  of  so  conducting  my  inquiry  into  your  past 
that  it  ought  to  be  practically  painless.  Once  you  nearly 
floored  me  by  telling  me  that  you'd  written  in  your  Journal 
that  you'd  had  a  very  'advanced'  day.  Remember? 
Now,  did  you  bring  that  Journal  up  with  you?" 

Francis  was  doubtful,  but  submissive.  "I  did.  It 
never  leaves  my  inside  coat  pocket  except  when  I  write 
in  it." 

"Produce!"  she  commanded,  holding  out  her  hand. 

315 


Second    Youth 


Francis  hesitated,  opened  his  mouth  for  an  objection, 
silently  produced.  She  held  that  intimate  record  of  His 
heart  in  her  two  hands,  looking  at  the  gold  forget-me-nots 
tied  with  the  gold  true-lovers'  knot,  looking  at  his  own 
name  printed  in  plain,  precise  capitals  just  below. 

"It's  foolish — sentimental — lots  of  it  is  naive,  very," 
he  apologized,  beginning  to  blush.  "You  enter  on  Mon- 
day, March  thirteenth — that's  when  I  met  you  the  first 
time,  you  know.  However,  it's  pretty  foolish  through 
there — you  might  begin  later,  about — " 

"I  think  I'll  begin  on  Monday,  March  thirteenth,"  de- 
cided Miss  Winton,  and  did  so. 

Francis,  somewhat  amazed  at  his  own  acquiescence — 
he  remembered  his  agony  when  Mrs.  Benson  had  en- 
deavored to  read  that  Personal  Journal — watched  her 
face,  wondering  how  she  would  take  it. 

Her  face  said  nothing  whatever  except  that  she  was 
interested.  She  read  several  pages  without  a  sign  that 
the  matter  was  of  more  than  casual  interest.  She  laughed 
suddenly,  and  turned  to  glance  at  him.  "Your  remark 
that  flax  has  a  blue  flower,  and  a  field  of  cotton  all  white 
in  the  sun  must  be  a  wondrous  sight — but  the  worm 
gets  ahead  of  them  both — that's  good!"  she  explained, 
and  read  on. 

"Tell  me — what  was  the  old  house  in  Astoria?"  she 
asked  a  little  later  on;  and  Francis  explained  about  that, 
and  about  his  family,  and  about  the  incident  of  the 
Lieutenant  Ronald  Francis,  sole  heir  to  an  English 
marquisate,  who  had  been  killed  in  the  north  of  France. 
She  was  reading  again  before  he  had  finished,  but  she 
dropped  a  little  comment  to  the  effect  Uiat  he  and  the 
young  British  lieutenant  might  be  far-distant  relatives, 

after  all.     Peculiarly  enough,  it  seemed  to  him  that  this 

316 


Second    Youth 


raised  him  in  her  estimation  somewhat  as  it  had  raised 
him  in  the  estimation  of  Mr.  Remmick  and  Miss  Barney. 

She  made  little  running  comments  from  time  to  time. 
"It's  a  wonder  Mrs.  Benson  didn't  get  you.  I  never 
thought  what  danger  you  were  running  of  being  gobbled 
up!"  was  one  of  them.  "Heavens — here  he's  wondering 
whether  he  couldn't  be  happy  with  Helen  Remmick!" 
was  another.  "I  like  Rose  Baumann!"  she  announced, 
suddenly,  at  another  time.  "She  and  McNab  and 
Whiggam  and  Remmick  are  about  the  only  real  people 
you've  ever  known,  aren't  they?" 

After  that  she  read  for  a  considerable  time  in  silence. 
Francis,  in  a  lazy,  restful  contentment,  looked  at  her, 
and  at  the  landscape,  and  at  the  sky,  and  found  them  all 
good. 

He  wandered  away,  after  an  hour  or  so,  and  came  back 
with  half  a  dozen  pink  wild  roses,  which  he  suggested 
would  add  a  touch  of  color  to  the  gray-silk  dress.  She 
found  a  pin  somewhere,  and  put  them  on.  A  touch  of 
rose  color  had  come  up  into  her  face,  that  had  looked  so 
gray  and  bilious  at  the  breakfast  table,  to  match  the  wild 
roses  at  her  breast. 

After  that  he  lounged  beside  her,  hugely  content, 
frankly  watching  her  quick  gray  eyes,  the  delicate  curve 
of  her  inquisitive  nose,  the  mobile  corners  of  her  mouth; 
she  took  no  notice  of  him  and  there  was,  in  truth,  little 
in  his  quiet  admiration  to  distract  her  attention.  He 
liked  to  look  at  her  more  than  at  the  trees  and  sky  and 
grass,  because  she  was  more  beautiful,  but  he  liked  to 
look  at  her  for  much  the  same  reasons  he  liked  to  look 
at  them. 

"Look  here — how  about  this?"  she  demanded,  sud- 
denly. "Here  you  are  being  offered  a  perfectly  good 

317 


Second    Youth 


one-hundred-doll ar-a- week  job — you've  deceived  me,  Ro- 
land Farwell  Francis!  Were  you  afraid  I'd  marry  you  for 
your  money?" 

"I  tried  to  tell  you — and,  God  knows,  after  you'd  left 
me  last  night  I  wished  I  had  told  you — you  might  have 
thought  me  something  better  than  a  thirty-dollar-a-week 
counter-jumper,  anyway!"  he  assured  her,  becoming  a 
little  serious  in  spite  of  himself.  He  remembered  his 
suicide  thoughts,  his  psychic  premonitions,  his  hysterical 
need  to  make  sure  that  she  was  all  right.  What  a  com- 
plete and  flabbergasted  fool  he  had  been! 

"You  know — I  was  thinking  last  night,"  she  told  him, 
interrupting  her  reading  a  little  further  on,  "about  my — 
my  dirty  alimony,  you  know.  And  I  almost  decided  it 
wasn't  tainted  money.  Why,  see  here — it's  all  I've  got 
to  show  for  a  fairly  strenuous,  and  fairly  disagreeable, 
ten  years  of  my  life! 

"When  a  partnership's  dissolved  it  isn't  fair  that  one 
partner  should  take  everything,  is  it?  Well,  in  a  small 
way,  I  was  a  partner — at  least  a  small  shareholder,  in 
that  firm  whose  head  is  now,  thanks,  perhaps,  partly  to 
my  efforts,  worth  about  a  million  dollars;  and  it  was  his 
fault  that  I  was  thrown  out  of  a  job,  practically  without 
a  cent — out  of  the  only  job  I  was  really  skilled  at  holding 
down.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  change  my  mind  about 
that  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year — especially  if  I  can  get 
my  lawyer  to  get  my  'Ex'  to  turn  over  to  me  bonds  bring- 
ing in,  say,  five  thousand  dollars  a  year.  He  ought  to  be 
willing  to  do  that.  I  thought  of  specifying  fifteen  hundred 
dollars  a  year  last  night — but  I  don't  feel  as  humble  just 
now  as  I  did  last  night — and  I  didn't  know  you  were 
earning  more  than  fifteen  hundred  dollars  a  year,  anyway. 

At  sixty  dollars  a  week,  I  thought — but  I'm  anticipating — • 

318 


Second    Youth 


Now  don't  you  draw  one  deduction  from  what  I've  said, 
Francis,  until  I  tell  you  to!" 

"Sha'n't!"  he  promised. 

She  had  called  him  "Francis"!  It  was  a  matter  of 
more  importance  to  him  than  even  Mr.  Remmick's  calling 
him  by  the  same  unadorned  name.  "Francis" — it  was 
a  fine  name,  a  genial,  friendly  name.  It  was  as  good  a 
first  name  to  be  called  by  as  any  man  might  want. 

"Adele!"  he  said  under  his  breath;  and  proceeded, 
aloud,  "I  noticed  that  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sheva  some- 
times call  you  'Adele.'" 

She  looked  up.  "Mr.  Sheva  objects  to  'Adelaide* 
because  it  has  the  French  word  for  'ugly'  in  it,  and  he 
says,  very  complimentarily,  that  it  is  unsuitable  for  me. 
I  prefer  Adele  myself." 

"Adele!"  he  said,  reclining  with  one  hand  under  his 
head.  "I  like  it,  too — Adele!  I  like  it  a  great  deal — 
Adele!" 

"Now,  stop!"  she  commanded,  shaking  a  finger  at  him 
while  she  read — shaking  a  finger,  and  speaking  much  as 
Mrs.  Benson  had  spoken  to  Whiggam,  or  any  perfectly 
natural  member  of  the  gentler  sex  might  speak  to  any 
perfectly  natural  member  of  the  other  sex  who  was 
teasing  and  admiring  her  at  once.  How  like  all  women 
were,  one  to  another,  Mr.  Frdncis  sagely  reflected,  picking 
at  the  grass;  and  yet  how  completely  different!  Perhaps 
their  difference  was  even  more  noticeable  than  their  like- 
ness. 

"And  I  like  you,  too — Adele!"  said  Francis,  boldly 
diffident.  He  was  beginning  to  round  the  circle  again; 
he  was  reaching  that  place  to  which  he  had  come  the 
evening  before  when  he  wanted  to  smooth  her  hair, 

Jier  eyes,  the  little  wrinkle  at  the  corner  of  lier  mouth- 

919 


Second    Youth 


"I  like  you,  too,  Adele!"  he  repeated,  when  she  took 
no  notice  of  him.  "Last  evening  you  took  the  liberty 
of  saying  you  liked  me!  So  now  I'll  say — I  like  you 
tremendously,  Adele  Winton — and  have  liked  you  tre- 
mendously since  the  first  time  I  set  eyes  on  you!" 

"Stop!"  she  begged.  "I'm  coming  to  really  contem- 
porary reading — I'm  reading  what  you  wrote  last  night — 
what  you  thought  about  me — and  about  yourself!" 

Francis,  a  little  startled  both  by  her  seriousness  and  by 
vague  recollections  of  what  he  had  written  last  night,  sat 
up,  put  his  arms  around  his  knees,  and  stared  at  the 
scenery.  What  would  she  think  of  that? 

"This  is  rather  wonderful,  Francis!"  she  said,  under  her 
breath;  her  face  had  lost  its  color,  her  lips  were  a  little 
apart,  she  was  gray,  almost,  with  pain,  and  yet  the 
strange  light  of  a  curious  little  smile  played  about  her, 
as  of  a  wisp  of  late  sunlight  stealing  beneath  storm  clouds. 
"You've  put  the  best  construction  on  everything — just 
as  a  woman  would  wish  a  man —  And  yet,  you've  un- 
derstood!" 

Francis,  from  his  place  in  the  circle  of  his  emotions 
which  demanded  from  him  only  peacefulness  touched  with 
a  little  faint  desire  to  kiss  her  hair,  perhaps,  or  even  her 
hand,  wondered  what  he  had  written  that  moved  her  so. 
He  couldn't  remember,  he  didn't  want  to  remember  last 
night's  turmoil.  He  was  calm,  and  happy,  and  as  sure 
of  a  millennium  as  he  had  been  of  suicide  and  general 
devastation  a  few  hours  ago.  Mrs.  Benson  had  not 
betrayed  her  sex's  reputation  for  intuition  when  she 
called  him  "temperamental." 

Quite  abruptly  Adele  let  the  little  red-morocco-covered 
book  coast  from  her  silken  knees  to  the  grass,  buried  her 

faqe  in  her  arms,  and  began  to  cry. 

3*0 


Second    Youth 


"No — no — please  don't  touch  ine!"  she  begged,  when 
his  hands  went  out  toward  her,  when  he  rose  to  his 
knees  and  bent  over  her,  full  of  wonder,  awe,  overwhelming 
pity  and  love.  "I'll  be  all  right.  Please  don't  mind!  It 
was  just  that  quotation  from  Browning  you  put  in  about 
me.  Oh!  Oh — that  was  almost  too  much!  Boo-hoo — 
don't  mind  me  if  I  boo-hoo,  will  you?  There — I'm  all 
right  now!"  She  picked  up  the  book,  and  wiped  her  eyes, 
and  began  to  read  again.  "  You  know,  Francis,  nice 
man,"  she  said — evidently  she  was  not  reading  yet — 
"the  reason  so  many  of  these  women  who  have  trouble 
with  their  husbands  go  to  pieces — it's  just  because  they 
aren't  like  dewdrops — they've  had  a  little  of  the  wine 
of  life  mixed  in  with  their  dewdrop  purity — a  little  wine, 
and  a  little  blood,  Francis — and  that's  a  heady  mixture! 
They  do  what  a  man  would  do  under  the  circumstances — 
and  it  kills  them,  or  worse — for  most  women  can't  do  what 
men  can,  Francis — not  in  some  things — and  still  live 
through  it! 

"There,  now,  don't  say  a  word!  Just  sit  there  and 
be  patient  till  I  finish.  I  see  there  are  only  a  few  pages 
more." 

Francis  quietly  took  one  of  her  hands  and,  sitting 
close  beside  her  on  that  morning  hillside,  quietly  held 
it  in  both  of  his  own.  His  circle  of  emotions  was  de- 
ranged; instead  of  approaching  the  moment  when  he 
would  take  her  violently  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her,  as  ac- 
cording to  the  schedule  arranged  on  the  previous  evening, 
he  seemed  to  be  going  back  with  her  into  the  terrors  of 
that  early  morning  time  when  the  least  he  expected  was 
to  find  her  a  beautiful  corpse.  He  held  her  hand  firmly; 
this  time  he  would  not  lose  sight  of  her,  nor  touch  of  her, 
either.  She  pressed  his  hand,  locking  her  fingers  around 


Second    Youth 


his  without  seeming  to  notice  what  she  was  doing.  Once 
more  she  was  a  little  gray,  a  little  frightened. 

"It's  probably  all  a  coincidence,"  she  said,  suddenly 
closing  the  book  in  her  lap  and  looking  toward  the  white 
spire  of  the  distant  church,  "but  I  was  having  just  about 
those  thoughts  you  credited  me  with — at  just  about  that 
time.  I  suppose  it  can  all  be  accounted  for  on  the  ground 
of  your  woman-like  intuition.  Yes,  I  even  thought  of 
you,  for  a  while,  as  the  thirty -doll  ar-a- week  counter- 
jumper  you  suspected  I  might — and  yes,  I  thought  of 
myself  as  something  soiled,  that  you'd  take — because  it 
was  finer  than  you  could  get  right  off  the  piece.  And 
yes,  I  did  think  of  just  going  into  my  bathroom,  and 
turning  on  the  warm  water,  and  opening  two  veins  with 
my  nail-scissors — in  the  good  old  Roman  way — except, 
of  course,  that  the  Romans  didn't  use  nail-scissors,  and  I 
didn't  have  anything  else!  Of  course  I  wouldn't  have 
done  it — but  it  just  happens  I  was  thinking  of  it  pretty 
hard  about  the  time  that  maid  knocked  at  my  door.  It's 
queer,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is  queer — yes!"  Francis  found  his  voice,  recog- 
nized it  as  his  own,  cleared  it,  and  went  on,  "Good 
God!  You  were  really  thinking  that — and  I  got  it — 
felt  it—" 

"I  think  we'd  better  emulate  Mr.  William  James  and 
stay  on  the  fence!"  she  interrupted. 

Francis  glanced  at  her,  turning  his  head  the  faintest 
bit  in  her  direction.  He  was  very  careful  about  his 
movements;  he  was  interested  in  last  night's  trouble, 
of  course,  but  there  was  another  matter  that  seemed  of 
almost  equal  importance  just  then;  the  other  matter 
was  that,  on  a  fold  of  her  gray-silk  dress,  his  right  hand 
clasped,  and  was  clasped  by,  her  left.  They  were  holding 


Second    Y  outh 


hands  on  a  July  hillside  in  the  morning  sunlight.  Let 
no  word  or  deed  cf  his  mitigate  that  fact! 

"I  think  the  only  thing  that  has  kept  the  married  life 
of  the  Shevas  from  being  entirely  happy,"  she  went  on — 
and  he  was  peaceful  in  the  belief  that  she  would  not  dis- 
turb their  hand-holding  while  she  seemed  so  much  in- 
terested in  something  else — "is  that  Mrs.  Sheva  was 
wealthy,  Mr.  Sheva  comparatively  poor,  when  they  mar- 
ried. You  see,  it's  the  reverse  of  that  common  news- 
paper story  in  which  the  poor,  but  educated  and  beau- 
tiful, East  Side  Jewess  marries  the  wealthy  American 
gentleman.  Well,  in  this  case,  the  wealthy  gentle  lady 
married  the  poor,  but  educated  and  handsome,  East 
Side  Jew  —  or  not  East  Side,  exactly,  but  not  many 
generations  removed  from  it.  He  gave  up  his  news- 
paper work  to  come  up  here  with  her,  and  he's  be- 
come quite  a  critic — at  times,  I  understand,  he  earns 
almost  enough  to  keep  up  their  two  automobiles;  but 
he  isn't  entirely  contented — and  I  don't  blame  him.  I'm 
glad  I  haven't  got  any  more  money  than  you  have — and 
that  you  won't  have  to  give  up  your  work  for  me.  You 
like  your  work,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  Francis  admitted.  There  seemed  to  be  no  dan- 
ger, now,  of  any  calamity  befalling  the  hand-holding. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  danger  even  that  her  hand's  steady 
pressure  would  relax.  He  had  answered  "Yes"  to  her 
question  about  his  business,  but  what  was  his  business 
to  him?  His  real  and  ecstatic  business  was  holding  hands, 
in  Sunday-morning  decency,  propriety,  and  universality  on 
a  hillside.  Probably  a  million  hand-holdings  were  in 
progress  all  over  the  United  States,  Mexico,  and  Canada, 
not  to  mention  South  America,  at  that  same  hour,  re- 
flected Mr.  Francis.  What  a  glorious  thought — that 

323 


Second    Youth 


there  should  be  so  much  pure  happiness  in  the  Western 
Hemisphere ! 

He  would  have  expatiated  on  the  matter  to  Miss  Winton 
if  all  of  her  except  her  hand  hadn't  appeared  to  be  so 
practical  and  business-like.  He  had  a  feeling  that  he 
would  call  it  to  her  attention,  anyway,  within  a  short 
time. 

"You  know  that  diary — that  Personal  Journal — of 
yours,  Francis — every  bachelor  should  keep  one  like  that 
to  serve  as  an  introduction  to — to  a  certain  person  in 
particular,"  she  said,  pointing  at  the  neglected  book  with 
one  slim  suede  toe,  "I  couldn't  have  understood  you, 
couldn't  have  got  at  your  foundations — couldn't  have 
believed  you'd  understand  me — if  it  hadn't  been  for  that ! 
Of  course  it's  too  complimentary  to  me  right  through — 
but  you  can't  blame  me  for  liking  that!  Why,  from  just 
reading  that  Journal — from  just  hurrying  over  it,  as  I 
had  to — I  know  you  as  well — I  like  you  as  much — as  if 
we'd  seen  each  other  daily  for  ten  years!  And  people 
can't  take  ten  years  to  make  up  their  minds  when  they've 
wasted  as  much  time  without  each  other  as  we  have — 
can  they,  Roland  Farwell  Francis?" 

Mr.  Francis's  circle  of  emotions  had  reformed;  he  had 
reached  that  dizzying  pinnacle  from  which  he  had  fallen 
upon  his  lady  the  evening  before,  crushing  her  to  him, 
nearly  getting  them  both  into  serious  trouble.  He  re- 
strained himself,  although  the  effort  caused  him  a  suc- 
cession of  quick  tremors;  he  was  learning  things;  he  sur- 
mised humbly  that  he  was  just  beginning  to  learn. 

"Why,  after  reading  that — after  seeing  how  constantly 
I've  been  in  your  thoughts — and  knowing  how  constantly 
you've  been  in  my  thoughts — Francis,  dear — "  She 

paused,  she  seemed  a  little  surprised,  a  quick  sidewise 

324 


Second    Youth 


flash  of  her  eyes  told  him,  that  he  had  no  words,  no  sign 
to  show  that  he  heard  the  new  dove-notes  in  her  voice. 
He  knew,  now,  that  she  was  ready  for  his  arms.  With 
infinite  gentleness  he  put  both  his  arms  around  her, 
drew  her  across  his  breast  until  she  rested  there,  with  her 
head  in  the  hollow  of  his  shoulder,  her  face  a  little  way 
below  his  face,  both  her  hands  clasped  close  up  under  her 
little  chin  in  one  of  his. 

"  I  was  going  to  say,"  she  went  on,  boldly,  tremulously, 
"that  I  almost  felt  I'd  been  married  to  you  for  a  month 
at  least;  but  now — now  I  don't  feel  that  way  at  all! 
Yes,  kiss  me,  kiss  me — my  own  dear  man — my  mate!" 


XVIII 

HE  MAKES  A  PENULTIMATE  ENTRY,  AND  A  VARIANT  HAND- 
WRITING  APPEARS   IN   THE   LAST   LINES   IN   THE   BOOK 


o 


N  the  evening  of  Saturday,  July  15th,  Mr.  Francis 
wrote  in  the  book: 


Not  a  line  here  for  two  weeks.  Very  busy.  Luncheon 
to-day  with  Mr.  Remmick  and  Mr.  Gladden.  Remmick 
once  referred  to  me  as  a  born  bachelor;  then  I  told  them 
how  I  had  evolved.  Both  congratulated  me  warmly,  so 
I  may  be  right  in  hoping  that  Miss  Helen  Remmick  has 
not  grieved  over  me  to  any  great  extent.  It  would  have 
been  a  tragedy  if  we  had  become  engaged,  nothing  less. 

Called  up  Whiggam  at  his  office,  fine  sales-manager  that 
he  has  become,  as  he  wrote  in  the  note  handed  to  me  by 
Mr.  Remmick.  He  is  high  in  praise  of  wedded  life,  and  I 
agreed  with  him.  He  said  Mrs.  Benson  insisted  on  de- 
laying the  wedding,  in  spite  of  the  special  messenger  I 
sent  with  a  note  about  my  previous  engagement.  She 
said  I  would  remember  my  promise  and  come  in  later. 
Finally,  about  nine  o'clock,  he  said,  he  got  her  regulated, 
and  she  has  stayed  regulated  like  an  eight-day  clock 
ever  since,  or  like  one  of  these  guaranteed  always-correct 
electric  clocks.  He  said  he  was  the  electricity  in  the 
combination.  I  trust  he  is  not  harsh  with  her,  and  I  do 
not  believe  he  is. 


Second    Youth 


Of  course  these  two  weeks'  vacation  have  been  a  joy 
to  me,  and  I  thanked  Mr.  Remmick  from  my  heart  for  so 
promptly  getting  them  for  me  at  my  request.  Never- 
theless, I  shall  be  glad  to  get  back  into  harness. 

All  this  is  stupid,  but  I  feel  stupid  to-night,  contented 
and  stupid,  and  I  merely  want  to  fill  up  these  three 
pages  and  let  her  entry  on  the  next  page  finish  the  book. 
It's  been  a  joy,  this  old  Journal,  a  place  where  I  could 
think  in  writing.  I  sha'n't  need  it  any  more,  however, 
with  her  to  talk  to  about  things  instead. 

To-night  she's  in  Woodbridge  with  the  Shevas.  Mon- 
day she's  coming  down  with  all  her  things  to  the  new 
apartment,  and  Tuesday  afternoon  is  the  hanging,  as 
Whiggie  would  say.  She  would  understand  that  I  meant 
by  hanging  only  that  my  emotions  are  tired  out  with  being 
in  a  state  of  ecstasy  too  long,  and  she  wouldn't  mind,  so 
I'll  leave  hanging  in.  At  four  o'clock  we'll  go  to  the 
church  of  that  good  progressive  Episcopal  minister  in 
Fifth  Avenue  near  Washington  Square,  who  has  agreed 
to  marry  us  even  though  one  of  us  is  divorced  and  the 
rules  of  his  Church  forbid  remarrying  divorced  couples. 
He  talked  it  all  over  with  me,  heard  the  history  of  the 
case,  and  said,  "Well,  I'll  marry  you,  and  feel  that  I'm 
doing  my  Master's  work  in  doing  it."  So  we'll  stand  up 
before  that  good  man,  in  front  of  Saint-Gaudens's  angels 
in  bas-relief,  just  we  two,  with  the  minister's  secretary 
and  the  old  sexton  to  sign  the  papers  as  witnesses.  She 
said  she'd  had  one  marriage  with  everything  from  orange- 
blossoms  to  general  drunkenness,-  and  there  was  no  heart, 
nor  soul,  nor  decency,  nor  sacred  seriousness  about  it, 
and  she  wanted  it  to  be  different  with  us.  I  agreed  with 
her  with  all  my  heart.  I  cannot  understand  the  psychol- 
ogy of  public  marriages. 

327 


Second    Youth 


I'll  leave  her  lines  to  finish  the  book.  She  chooses  to 
make  a  little  fun  of  me,  of  course,  but  I  understand  it, 
just  as  she'll  understand  my  use  of  the  word  hanging 
above.  I  confess  it  delights  me  to  have  her  poke  fun 
at  me.  Her  lines  were  written  before  this  entry,  of 
course,  but,  nevertheless,  they  are  really  the  end.  And 
how  can  I  say  how  much  I  agree  with  the  serious  words 
at  the  end? 

In  the  middle  of  the  next  page,  in  large,  smooth, 
flowing  script,  was  written: 

Sunday,  July  2d.  On  a  hillside  near  Woodbridge. 
Came  here  unexpectedly  in  response  to  command  from 
her.  She  still  pursues  me,  she  is  more  implacable  than  Mrs. 
Benson,  Miss  Barney,  and  Miss  Remmick  combined.  I 
must  marry  her,  she  informed  me  a  little  while  ago  while 
we  were  shamelessly  holding  hands  on  this  open  hill- 
side, in  the  broad  daylight,  and  be  faithful  to  her  in  word, 
thought,  and  deed,  as  she  has  promised  to  be  to  me.  We 
are  humbly  grateful  to  be  allowed  here  to  make  a  new 
beginning,  like  two  children,  or,  better,  like  two  grown 
persons  renewing  their  youth — agreeing  with  Whiggie  that 
marriage  is  no  bed  of  roses,  but  a  battle-field,  on  which 
the  most  ancient  of  dual  alliances  fights  against  all  manner 
of  evils  for  happiness  and  for  the  future  of  the  world. 
In  this  faith  we  trust  that  we  two  have,  perhaps,  found  the 
something  somewhere  that  is  good  enough. 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


LU-UHL 

51976 


MOV 


DISCHARGE-URL 
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Form  L9-Series  444 


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